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Th« copy filmad har* has baan raproducad thanki
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MOOCOTY HSOIUTION TiST CH«>T
(ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2)
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THE POEMS OF
THE POEMS OF
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
Batenna .... 1S7S
Poemt .... issi
The Sphijix . jg94
The Ballad of Beading Gaol 1S9S
tint iMued by Methuen and Co. IBOS
PAN and DESKSPOIR
Bt L. E. Bassktt
RcroRH Ci-UB, Pall Mall, S. W.,
11th February, 1909.
I am gratified to leam from Messrs. Methuen & Co.
that they have arranged with you to bring out the au-
thorised edition of Oscar Wilde's Works. It has been a
matter of great distress to me that owing to traditional
English carelessness the copyrights of some of Wilde's
worlis should be vitiated in the United States of America,
and that Wilde's children are unable to benefit by the
sale of the unauthorised editions.
In this version which you are issi^g the case is
happily diiTerent and I cannot do more than express a
hope that the American admirers of Oscar Wilde will
show their admiration in a practical way by obtaining his
worlcs from yourselves in preference to any other pub-
Since the English complete edition was issued I have
discovered two other little poems in the possession of a
friend: both of which are unpublished. I have much
pleasure in sending them to you, as you may be able to
incorporate them in your forthcoming volume of the
poems, of which they will thus form a unique feature.
I trust that the American laws relating to copyright
will enable you to protect the fledgings from being
plucked by the publishers of unauthorized editions.
Believe me. Dear Sirs,
Yours very truly,
Messrs. John Luce & Co.,
143 Federal Street,
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
RAVENNA (18T8) . . . . . , _ "^
Sonnet to Liberty ok
Ave Imperatrix og
To Milton * 82
Louis Napoleon .... ««
Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in
Quantum Mutata ..... 35
Libertatis Sacra Fames .... 86
THE GARDEN OF EROS 39
Sonnet on approaching Italy
Ave Maria Gratia Pleni
Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa,
Rome Unvisited . .
Urbs Sa;ra iGtema
Sonnet on hearing the Dies Ira? )ng in the
Easter Day .
E Tenebris .
Vita Niiova .
The New Helen
THE BURDEN OF ITYS .
Impression du Matin 101
Magdalen Walks lOa
Endymion . Ill
La Bella Donna della mia Mente . . .113
FLOWERS OF GOLD:
ImprMjions: I. Lm Silhouettes ... 186
iJ. La Fuite de la Lune . . 166
The Grave of Keats 1S7
Theocritus: A Villanelle .... 158
In the Gold Room : A Harmon v . . .159
Ballade de Marguerite .... 160
The Dole of the King's Daughter . . 168
Amor Intellectualig . . . .165
Santa Decca jgg
A Vision j~-
Impreasion de Voyage jgg
The Grave of Shelley jgg
By the Amo j-^
IMPRESSIONS DE THEATRE :
Fabien dei Franchi . ■^J,
Sonnets wntten at the Lyceum Tlientre :
I. Portia I~-
II. Queen Henrietta Mai i«, . . .178
THE FOURTH MOVEMENT:
Impression : Le R^veillon . . . .195
At Verona ,no
Quia Multum Amavi 199
Silentium Amoris SOO
Her Voice POl
My Voice 203
Taedium Vitae - 304
FLOWER OF LOVE:
rAVKYniKPoi EPOS 231
UNCOLLECTED POEMS (1876-1893):
From Spring Days to Winter
AJXtnoK, atXtvov elire, to S ei viki
The True Knowledge .
Impressions : i. Le Jardiii .
11. La luer
Under the Balcony
The Harlot's House .
Le Jardin des Tuileries
On the Sale by Auction of Keats' Love
The New Remone g58
Fantaisies Decoratives: i. Le Fanneau 894
n. Les Ballons 856
Symphony in Yellow 259
In the Forest jjgO
To my Wife : With a Copy of my Poems . 261
With a Copy of ' A House of Pomegranates ' 862
To L. L. (188-1,) 865
Chorus of Cloud Mr 'dens .... 271
Qpiln/ila ....... 878
A Fragment from the Agamemnon of
Sen Artysty ; or, the Artist's Dream . . 281
THE SPHINX (1894): 287
THE BALLAD OF READING GOAL:
Nemdigate Prize Poem
Recited in the Slieldonian Theatre
June 26th, 1878
TO MY FBIIEND
'the NILE NOVEL* AND 'llinAOl
Ravenna, March 1877
Oxford, March 1873
RAVBUNA U iiuMmt in IkU m lm mt
ty Knn>««im (^ tlu ttnur tf li« tntf
rilU, Mr. Oil-, boolatUer, rf Offvri,
(tuaxnar l» Mum. Skrimftm), <tka Ml
hiu (MM mpiu ^ tlu original edilUm.
A YEAR ago I breathed the Italian air,—
And yet, methinks thi^ northern Spring
^ is fair, —
These fields made golden with the flower of
The throstle singing on the feathered larch.
The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by.
The little clouds that race across the sky ;
And fair the violet's gentle drooping head.
The primrose, pale for love uncoinforted.
The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar.
The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire
Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring) ;
And all the flowers of our English Spring,
Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil.
Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,
And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew ;
And down the river, like a flame of blue.
Keen as an arrow flies the water-king.
While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.
A yemr ago I — it seemi a little time
Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,
Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,
And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.
Full Spring it was— and by rich flowering vinet,
Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,
I rode at wilt ; the mo'st glad air was sweet,
Tlie white road rang beneath my horse's feet.
And musing on Ravenna's ancient name,
I watched the day till, marked with wounds of
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.
O how my heart with boyish passion burned,
When far away across the sedge and mere
I saw that Holy City rising clear.
Crowned with her crown of towers t — On and on
I galloped, racing with the setting sun,
And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,
I stood within Ravenna's walls at last I
How strangely still I no sound of life or joy
Startles the air ; no 'aughing shepherd-boy
Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day
Comes the glad sound of children at their play :
O sad, and sweet, and silent 1 surely here
A man might dwell apart from troublous fear.
Watching the tide of seasons as they flow
From amorous Spring to Winter's rain and
And have no thought of sorrow ;— here, indeed.
Are Lethe's waters, and that fatal weed
Wliich malces a man forget his fatherland.
Ay I amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand,
Lilce Proserpine, with poppy-laden head,
Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.
For though thy brood of warrior sons hath
Thy noble dead are with thee I— they at least
Are fpithful to thine honour ; — guard them well,
O childless city I for a mighty spell,
To wake men's hearts to dreams of things sub-
Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of
Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain,
Marks where the bravest knight of France was
The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war,
Gaston de Foix ; for some untimely star
Led him against thy city, and he fell.
As falls some forest-lion fighting well.
Taken from life while life and love were new.
He lies beneath God's seamless veil of blue ;
Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o'er his head.
And oleanders bloom to deeper red,
Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the
Look farther north unto that broken mound, —
There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb
Raised by a daughter's hand, in lonely gloom,
Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king,
Sleeps after all his weary conquering.
Time hath not spared his ruin, — wind and rain
Have broken down his stronghold ; and again
We see that Death is mighty lord of all,
And king and clown to ashen dnst must fall.
Mighty indeed their glory ! yet to me
Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry.
Or the great queen herself, were poor and
Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain.
His gilded shrine lies open to the air ;
And cunning sculptor's hands have carven there
The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn,
The eyes that flashed with passionate love and
The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell,
The almond-face which Giotto drew so well,
The weary face of Dante ;— to this day.
Here in his place of resting, far away
From Amo's yellow waters, rushing down
Through the wide bridges of that fairy town,
Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise
A marble lily under sapphire skies I
Alas 1 my Dante ! thou hast known the pain
Of meaner hves,— the exile's galling chain.
How steep the stairs within kings' houses are.
And all the petty miseries which mar
Man's nobler nature with the sense of wrong.
Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song;
Our nations do thee homage, — even slie,
That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,
Who bound with crown of thorns thy living
Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels
And begs in vain the ashes of her son.
O mightiest exile ! all thy grief is done :
Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice;
Ravenna guards thine ashes : sleep in peace.
How lone this palace is ; how grey the walls I
No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.
The broken chain lies rusting on tlie door,
And noisome weeds have split the marble
Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run
By the stone lions blinking in the sun.
Byron dwelt here in love and revelry
For two long years — a second Anthony,
Who of the world another Aetium made I
Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade,
Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen,
'Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.
For from tlie Ec.st there ci.iiie a mighty cry.
And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty,
And called him from Ravenna : never knight
Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!
None fell more bravely on ensanguined field.
Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield I
O Hellas 1 Hellas I in thine hour of pride.
Thy day of might, remember him who died
To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling
O Salamis ! O lone Plataean plain 1
O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea I
O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae 1
He loved you well — ay, not alone in word.
Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword,
Ijike iEschylos at well-fought Marathon :
And England, too, shall glory in her son,
Her warrior- poet, first in. song and fight
No longer now shall Slander's venomed spite
Crawl like a snake across his perfect name.
Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.
For as the olive-garland of the race,
Which lights with joy each eager runner's face.
As the red cross which saveth men in war.
As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far
By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,—
Such was his love for Greece and Liberty I
Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green :
Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene
Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for
In hidden glades by lonely Castaly ;
The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine.
And round thy head one perfect wreath will
The pine-tops rocked before the evening
With the hoarse murmur of tl *^intry seas,
And the tell stems were streaked with amber
bright ; —
I wandered through the wood in wild delight,
Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and
Made snow of all tlie blossoms ; at my feet,
Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay.
And small birds sang on every twining spray.
O waving trees, O forest liberty !
Within your haunts at least a man is free,
And half forgets the weary world of strife :
The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life
Wakes i' the quickening veins, while once again
The woods are filled with gods we fancied
Long time 1 watched, and surely hoped to see
Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy
Amid the reeds 1 some startled Dryad-maid
In girlish flight ! or lurking in the glade.
The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous
Of woodland god I Queen Dian in the chase,
White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride.
And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side 1
Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.
O idle heart ! O fond Hellenic dream !
Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell.
The evening chimes, the convent's vesper-bell.
Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.
Alas ! alas 1 these sweet and honied hours
Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching
And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.
nP}°^^ ^^enna 1 many a tale is told
Of thy great glories in the days of old •
Two thousand years have passed since thou
C»sar ride forth to royal victory.
Mighty thy name when Rome's iean eagles flew
From Britain's isles to far Euphrates blue;
And of the peoples thou wast noble queen,
Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen
Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea.
Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery!
No longer now upon thy swelling tide,
Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride I
For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to
The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note;
And the white sheep are free to come and go
Where Adria's purple waters used to flow.
O fair I O sad I O Queen uncomforted 1
In mined loveliness thou liest dead.
Alone of all thy sisters ; for at last
Italia's royal warrior hath passed
Rome's lordliest entrance, and hath worn his
In the high temples of the Eternal Town!
Ihe Palatine hath welcomed back lier king
And with his name the seven mountains ring!
And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain.
And mocks her tyrant 1 Venice lives again,
New risen from the waters 1 and the c-y
Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,
Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where
The marble spires of Milan wound the air.
Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore.
And Dante's dream is now a dream no more.
But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all.
Thy ruined palaces are but a pall
That hides thy fallen greatness 1 and thy name
Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame,
Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun
Of new Italia ! for the night is done.
The night of dark oppression, and the day
Hath dawned m passionate splendour : far away
The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land.
Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand
Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy,
From the far West untu the Eastern sea.
I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died
In Lissa's waters, by *:he mountain-side
Of Aspromonte, on iVovara's plain, —
Nor have thy children died for thee in vain :
And yet, methirLs, thou hast not drunk this
From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine,
Thou hast not followed that immortal Star
Which leads the people forth to deeds uf war
Weary of life, thou liest in silent sle»p
As one who marks the lengthening 'shadows
Careless of all the hurrying hours that run,
Mourning some day of glory, for the sun
Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face.
And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.
Yet wake not from thy slumbers.-rest thee
Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel
Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,-rest thee there.
10 mock all human greatness :• who would dare
lo vent the paltry sorrows of his life
Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife
Of kings' ambition, and the barren pride
Of warring nations ! wert not thou the Bride
Of the wild Lord of Adria's stormy sea!
The Queen of double Empires ! and to thee
V\ ere not the nations given as thy prey 1
And now-thy gates lie open night and day.
The grass grows green on every tower and hall,
1 he gliastly hg hath cleft thy bastioned wall •
And where thy mailed warriors stood at rest '
Ihe midnight owl hath made her secret nest
O fellen ! fallen ! from thy high estate.
O city trammeUed in the toils of Fate,
Doth nought remun of all thy glorious days,
But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays I
Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears.
From tranquil tower can watch the coming
Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring.
Or why before the dawn the linnets sing ?
Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose
To crimson splendour from its grave of snows ;
As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold
From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter's
As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star I
O much-loved city I I have wandered far
From the wave- circled islands of my home ;
Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome
Rise slowly from the drear Campagna's way,
Clothed in the royal purple of the day :
I from the city of the violet crown
Have watched the sun by Corinth's hill go down.
And marked the ' myriad laughter ' of the sea
From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady ;
Yet back to thee returns my perfect love.
As to its forest-nest the evening dove.
O poet's city 1 one who scarce has seen
Some twenty summers cast their doublets green,
For Autumn's livery, would seek in vain
To waite his lyre to sing a louder strain.
Or tell thy days of glory ;— poor indeed
Is the low murmur of the shepherd's reed,
Where the loud clarion s blast should shake the
And flame across the heavens I and to try
Such lofty themes were folly : yet I know
That never felt my heart a nobler glow
Than when I woke the silence of thy street
With clamorous trampling of my horse's feet.
And saw the city which now I try to sing.
After long days of weary travelling.
Adieu, Ravenna 1 but a year ago,
I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow
From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain :
The sky was as a shield that caught the stain
Of blood and battle from the dying sun,
And in the west the circling clouds had spun
A royal robe, which some great Gtod might
While into ocean-seas of purple air
Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light
Yet here the gentle stillness of the night
Bring! hack the i v/elling tide ot memory,
And wakes Again my passionate love for thee i
Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come
On meadow and tree the Summer's lordly
And soon the grass with brighter flowers will
And send up lilies for some boy to mow.
Then before long the Summer's conqueror,
Rich Autumn-time, the season's usurer.
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze ;
And after that the Winter cold and drear.
So runs the perfect cycle of the year.
And so from youth to manhood do we g^o,
And fall to weary days and locks of snow.
Love only knows no winter ; never dies :
For cares for frowning storms or leaden skies.
And mine for thee shall never pass away.
Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.
Adieu I Adieu ! yon silent evening star,
The night's ambassador, doth gleam afar.
And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.
Perchance before our inland seas of gold
Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves.
Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,
I may behold thy city ; and lay down
Low at thy feet the poet's laurel crown.
Adieu ! Adieu I yon silver lamp, the moon.
Which turns our midnight into pirfert u^
Where" n^ '«''* *''> t°-«". g"««iing ^ell
dwei? ^""^' ''^'"' By"" loved to
TO drift irith every panaion till my ttml
la a atriuged lute on whkh all windacan play,
la it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wiadom, and auatere control f
Methivka my life ia a twice-tcritten acroU
Scrawled over on aome boyiah holiday
With idle annga for pipe and virelay.
Which do but mar the aecret of the whole.
Surely there waa a time I might haveirod
The aunlit heighta, and from life'a dmmiance
Stnwk one clear chord to reach the eara qf God:
la that time dead f lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance
And must I loae a aouTa inheritance t
SONNET TO LIBERTY
NOT that I love thy children, whose dull
See nothing save their own unlovely
Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to
But that the roar of thy Democracies,
Thy reigns of Terror, tliy great Anarchies,
Mirror my wildest passions like the sea
And give my rage a brother -! Liberty I
For this sake only do thy dissonant cries
Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings
By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades
Rob nations of their rights inviolate
And I remain unmoved— and yet, and yet.
These Christs that die upon the barricades,
God knows it I am with them, in some things.
ET in this stormy Nortliern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England ! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide ?
The earth, a brittle globe of glass.
Lies in the hollow of tliy hand.
And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a twilight land.
The spears of crimson-suited war,
The long white-crested waves of fight.
And all the deadly fires wliich are
The torches of the lords of Night.
The yellow leopards, strained and lean.
The treacherous Russian knows so well.
With gaping blackened jaws are seen
Leap through the hail of screaming shell.
The strong sea-lion of England's wars
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea.
To battle with the storm tliat mars
The stars of England's chivaky.
The brazen-throated clarion blows
Across the Pathan's reedy fen,
And the high steeps of Indian snows
Siiake to the tread of armed men.
Ai)d many an Afghan chief, who lies
IJeneath his cool pomegranate-trees,
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise
When on the mountain-side he sees
The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes
To tell how he hath heard afar
The measured roll of English drums
Beat at the gates of Kandahar.
For southern wind and east wind- meet
Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,
England with bare and bloody feet
Climbs tiie steep road of wide empire.
O lonely Himalayan height,
Grey pillar of the Indian sky.
Where saw'st thou last in clanging flight
Our wing6d dogs of Victory I
The almond-groves of Samarcand,
Bokhara, where red lilies blow,
And Ox us, by whose yellow sand
The grave white-turbaned merchants go :
And on from thence to Ispahan,
The gilded garden of the sun.
Whence the long dusty caravan
Brings cedar wood and vermilion ;
And that dread city of Cabool
Set at the mountain's scarped feet,
Whose marble tanks are ever full
With water for the noonday heat :
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
A little maid Circassian
Is led, a present from the Czar
Unto some old and bearded khan, —
Here have our wild war-eagles flown.
And flapped wide wings in tiery fight ;
But the sad dove, that sits alone
In England — she hath no delight.
In vain the laughing girl will lean
To greet her love with love-lit eyes :
Down in some treacherous black ravine,
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.
And many a mocn and sun will see
The lingering wistful children wait
To climb upon their father's knee ;
And in each house made desolate
Pale women who have lost their lord
Will kiss the relics of the slain—
Some tarnished epaulette— some sword
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.
For not in quiet T5iip[lish fields
Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,
Where we might deck their broken shields
With all the flowers the dead love best.
For some are by the Delhi walls,
And many in the Afglian land,
And many where the Ganges falls
Through seven mouths of shifting sand.
And some in Russian waters lie.
And otiiers in the seas which are
The portals to the East, or by
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.
O wandering grave ! O restless sleep 1
O silence of the sunless day 1
O still ravine ! O stormy deep 1
Give up your prey ! Give up your prey I
And thou whose wounds are never healed.
Whose weary race is never won,
O Cromwell's England ! must thou yield
For every inch of ground a son ?
Go ! crown with thoms thy gold-crowned head.
Change thy glad song to song of pain ;
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,
And will not yield them back again.
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore
Possess the flower of Englisli land —
Lips tliat thy lips shall kiss no more,
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.
What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold,
If hidden in our heart is found
The care that groweth never old t
What profit thai or galleys ride,
Pine-forest-like, on every main ?
Ruin and wreck are at our side.
Grim warders of the House of pain.
Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet ?
Where is our English chivalry ?
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet.
And sobbing waves their threnody.
O loved ones lying far away,
What word of love can dead lips send !
O wasted dust ! O senseless clay !
Is this the end t is this the end I
Pwice, peace 1 we wronjj the noble dead
To vex their solemn slumber so;
Though childless, and with tiiom-crowned head,
Up the steep road must England go.
Yet when this fiery web is spun,
Her watchmen shuU descry from far
The young Republic like a sun
Rise from these crimson seas of war.
MILTON ! I think thy spirit hath passed
From these white cliffs and high-
embattled towers ;
This gorgeous fier> -coloured world of ours
Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,
And the age changed unto a mimic play
Wherein we waste our else too-crowded
For all our pomp and pageantry and powers
We are but tit to delve the common clay.
Seeing this litt'e isle on which we stand.
This England, this sea-linn of the sea.
By ignorant demagogues is held in fee.
Who love her not : Dear God I is this the land
Which bare a triple empire in her hand
When Cromwell spake the word Democracy !
EAGLE of Austerlitzl where were thy
When far «w„y „,,„„ a barbarous strand.
Fell th. .* ""!?","'• ''>■ "" "''^'"^« ''-nd.
t ell the last scion of thy brood of Kings I
P..or boy^^thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
ihy mother France, free and republican.
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of « soldier, crown
down "*'"'^** ''"'"'*' ^^y '°"' »»
To tell the mighty Sire of thy race
Th.c /. r- ,. c : ath kissed the mouth of Liberty
And found It sweeter than his honied bew
Br. t ^,'* *u' ^'"'' ^"^^ Democracy '
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay crouched
ON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHWISTIANS
CHRIST, dost thou live indeed? or are
Still straitened in their rock-hewn
And was thy Rising only dreamed by Her
Whose love of thee for all her sin atones ?
For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
The priests who call upon thy name are slam.
Dost thou not hear the bitter wail of pam
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God 1 incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over thy Cross a Crescent moon 1 see !
If thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Manl and show thy
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee 1
THERE was a time in Europe long ago
When no man died for freedom any-
But England's lion leaping from its lair
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
While England could a great Republic show.
Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care
Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair
The Pontiff in his painted portico
Trembled before our stern ambassadors.
How comes it then that from such high estate
We have thus fallen, save that Luxury
With barren merchandise piles up the gate
Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter
Else might we sUU be Milton's heritors
LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES
LHEIT nurtured in democracy,
And liking best that state republican
Where every man is Kinglike and no
Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see.
Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,
Better the rule of One, whom all obey,
Than to let clamorous demagogues betray
Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.
Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane
Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street
Foi no right cause, beneath whose ignorant
Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things
Save Treason and the dagger of her trade.
Or Murder with his silent bloody feet
'-pHlS^^^^lghty empire hath but feet of
Some enemy hath stolen its cXn of h
AndrftSt;;-„1'''''''rf '»<>■-».« of Art
THE GARDEN OF EROS
THE GARDEN OP EROS
IT is full summer now, the heart of June
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir'
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
R ch autumn t.me. the season's usurer.
W,n lend h,s hoarded gold to all the trees.
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and
Too soon indeed ! yet here the daffodil.
That ove-child of the Spring, has lingered on
Tr^**"".'",? ^''^ J«"'""''y> «nd ''till
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion.
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since
June's messenger **
The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That wUl not look the gold sun in the facp
For fear of too much splendour._ah I methinks
It IS a place
Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis I
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady 1
^ The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah ! you and I may find it now if Love and
Sleep be kind.
There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine.
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine.
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve.
And lilac lady's-smock,— but let them bloom
alone, and leave
Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee.
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce ; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies
Their painted wings beside it,— bid it pine
In pale virginity ; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
THE GARDEN OF EROS
^nd phjek^that .„o«,us flower which bloods
''''' ''iu:r'"''^'^ -'''«'-* of •'isses not
The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
Of Huntress D.an would be loth to mar
Adonis jealous.-these for thy head .„^ f
thy girdle take ^ '"ead.-and for
^Vho^e^gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian
"^ButTh^l"""' '"'"' *''"'' "Adding chalices
Ah t leave it for s subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew
bright with shinunering gold.
Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul's idolatry 1
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry.
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt
walk on daisies pied.
And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her
And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hap' is nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
THE GARDEN OF EROS
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the
And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed.
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Hack from the lotus meadows of the dead
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in
war's abyss 1
And then 1 11 pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to tne cliflTs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his
And if my flute can breathe sweet melody
We may behold Her face who long ago '
Dwelt among men by tlie ^Egean sea,
And whose sad house witli pillaged porUco
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet-
Spirit ot Beauty 1 Urry still awliile.
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries.
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories.
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them I Uirv still, there
are a few
Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being, 1 at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food.
And in thy temples foimd a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Iti now-found creeds so sceptical and so dog-
Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows.
The woods of white Colonos are not here.
On our bleak hills the olive never blows.
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-
Yet tarry I for the boy who loved thee best.
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the lloman walls, and melody
THE GARDEN OF EROS
The lute of Adon.... with hi. lip, So„g%Ld
tfie Muses still had
N»y. when Keats died
Save for that fierv heart tK.*
'*r,tes ■'■■■«■ •"«"/■»«....
In passionless and fierce virginity
"JUS laughs to know one knp*. n,;ii u
before her stiJl. * '^'" ^"^
And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilean's requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood -ind
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper.
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before
Spirit of Beauty I tarry with us still.
It is not quenched the torch of poesy.
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight —
O tarry with us still I for through the long and
Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer's child.
Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
Thfc weary soul of man in troublous need.
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly
We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all.
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
THE GARDEN OF EROS
summer hours " ">ow oft through
cool grassy field ""'^ ««• m some
The strength and splendouf of the stn
mine ^"* ^^o™ was
Without the storm s red ruin for th •
divine. ' *" *''^ «n«er is
The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, tlie clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Aready
Touciied by his lips break forth again to fresher
Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile 1
Althougli the cheating merchants of the mart
Witli iron roads profane our lovely isle.
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay ! though the crowded factories beget
The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul,
O tarry yet 1
For One at least there is, — He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel, —
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar ; He too loves thee well.
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare.
And the white feet of angels coming down the
Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear.
And Sorrow take a purple diadem.
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful ; — such is the empery
THE GARDEN OF EROS
In aU h,s pity. love, and wariness
Inan those wlio can h„* '^""^ss.
Have analysed the rainbow, robbed 1^ "^
Of her most ancient cha^t^ f ^ "*^"
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period ? but now the Age
Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne a^ain a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus, to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter
Repair for judgment, let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man !
Methinks that was not my inheritance ;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more
Lo 1 while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and H<;cate's
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out : I did not note
The waninf "lOurs, to young Endymions
Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of
THE GARDEN OF EROS
Mark how the yellow iris wearily
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night.
Which gins to flush with crimson shame, and
die beneath :he light.
Come let us go. against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky tl>e almond blossoms gleam.
The corncrake nested in the unmown field
Un fatful wmg the startled curlews fly
And m his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day
IS nigh, '
Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun.
Who soon m gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung m the burning east, see, the red rim
Oertops the expectant hills I it is the God!
tor love of him
Already the shrill lark is out of sight
Flooding with waves of song 'this silent
Ah I there is something more in that bird's flight
Than could be tested in a crucible !
But the air freshens, let us go, why soon
The woodmen will be here ; how we have lived
this night of June 1
TREAD lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
1 he daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
^^^ *l"* ^"* young and fair
Fallen to dust
Lily-like, white as snow.
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy ston^
Lie on her breast,
1 vex my heart alone.
She is at rest
Peace. Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life 's buried here,
Heap earth upon it
SONNET ON APPROACHING ITALY
i : i
I REACHED the Alps: the soul within me
Italia, my Italia, at thy name :
And when from out the mountain's heart I
And saw the land for which my life had yearned,
I laughed as one who some great prize had
And musing on the marvel of thy fame
I watched the day, till marked with wounds
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair,
And in the orchards every twining spray
Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam :
But when I knew that far away at Rome
In evil bonds a second Peter lay,
I wept to see the land so very fair.
Up to this holy house of God.
Who sawti^r'"' *•"* ^"««'-P«nter trod
^ "o saw the heavens opened wide.
The'^^rZl "1°" *''*' '"'^"""t moon
ihe Virginal white Queen of Grace-
De„f17 u"''* ^ •"'* '*«'« thy face '
Death could not come at all too soon.
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame 1
O crowned by Christ the Holy 0„er
O hsten ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin Ldlme.
AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA
AS this His coining I I had hoped to
A scf^e of wondrous glory, as was
Of some grt^t God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae :
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire
Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly :
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place.
And now with wondering eyes and heart I
Before this supreme mystery of Love :
Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face.
An angel with a lily in his hand.
And over both the white wings of a Dove.
Of battle-spears thy ch.m. -ous ar.r.ie.
From the north Alps to the bu ilir.,, ,i,^e 1
Ay! fallen though the natinn.s i.ail lh«- Queen
Because nch gold in even, tov^„ is seen
Of w.nd-filled vans thy myriad gdlcns nde
Beneath one flag of red and white and green
I oT' ^T^ L "^ '*^°"« ""'^ I^«- 'n vain ,
Look southward where Rome's desecrated
Lies mourning for her God-anointed Kinir I
Look heaven-ward I shall God allow this thing ?
Nay I but some flame-girt Raphael shall come
And smite the SpoUer with the sword of pain.
WKITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA
through Scoglietto's far
The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and
Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay :
And the curved waves that streaked the great
Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed verj aweet
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing
' Jesus t!je son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.'
Ah, God ! Ah, God 1 those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain.
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the
Since farst my spirit wandered forth,
And t« If I " ^^ '''^'"' '='*'« °f the north.
And to Italia's mountains fled.
"^Jv !n ^ "^'.r f»<=« towards home,
Although, methlnks. yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign I
Mother without blot or stain
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold I
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
1 lay Miis barren gift of song 1
For. ah ! the way is steep and lonij
That leads unto thy sacred street
AND yet what joy it were for me
/-\ To turn my feet unto the south,
•*■ -^ And journeying towards the Tiber
To kneel again at Fiesole 1
And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno's stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.
By many a vineyard-hidden liome.
Orchard and olive-garden grey.
Till from the drear Campagna's way
The seven hills bear up the dome 1
A PILGRIM from the northern seas-
. ,)^ hat joy for me to seek alone
liie wondrous Temple and the
Of Him who holds the awful keys I
When, bright with purple and with gold.
Come priest and holy Cardinal,
And borne above the heads of aU
i he gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die
Tlie only God-anointed Kinir
And hear the silver trumpetf ring
A triumph as He passes by I
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice.
And shows his God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine^
FOR lo, what changes time can bring I
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold
Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
Or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race.
And caught the torch while yet aflame.
And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.
URBS SACRA iET'EKNA
Ruled the whole world for many an ajes span-
rijen of the peoples wert thou royal oTeSn^ '
1 .11 in thy streets the bearded Goth wasTeJn •
And now upon thy walls the breezes fan '
nSn^I)"*"'"'*' by God. discrowned by
The hated flag of red and white and gr^n.
^'hi„r '^""t^y ' "''^" •" search for power
Ihine eagles flew to greet the double sun.
And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod ?
Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour.^
When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One
1 he prisoned shepherd of the Church of G^
ON HEARING THE DIES IR^. SUNG IN THE
NAY, Lord, not thus ! white lilies in the
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest :
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon.
When red and brown are burnished on the
And the fields echo to the gleaner's song.
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest : we have waited long.
rang across the
THE silver trumpets
The people knelt upon the ground
with awe :
And borne upon the necks of men I saw.
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome,
i-nest-hke, he wore a robe more white than
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
1 hree crowns of gold rose high upon his head :
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
1 o one who wandered by a lonely sea
And sought in vain for any place of rest :
• l^oxes have holes, and everjr bird its nest.
I. only I, must wander wearily.
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with
COME down. O Christ, and help me!
reach thy hand,
™,. /*"■ ^ '™ ^^--^wning in a stormier sea
Ihan Simon on '' v lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is ^pilt upon the sand,
wu " " **""* famine-murdered land
Whence all Rood things have perished utterly.
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
Ifl this night before God's throne should stand
He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase.
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that
From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten
Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than
The wounded hands, the weary human face.
The long red fires of the dying dav
A^t ' !! '^ ""* ■' *»>*' ^'"d Krearilv •
Alas I I cned. • my life is full of pain,
irr„ " *r^° '"" «""^' fruit or golden wain
/j'-j-te fields which* travTcLe-
My nets gaped wide with m„ny a break and
r^to [he '^*'''"'^''''^'°'^ •">'«"«•«'«*»
Into the sea. and waited for the end
From the black waters of my tortured past
The argent splendour of white limbs «S 1
LlIvY-GIRL, not made for this world's
With brown, soft hair close braided by
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain :
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain.
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold.
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, wlieri he stood with Heatrice
Heneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Cr>'stal, and tlie Stair of Gold.
THE NEW HELEN
WHERE hast thou been since round the
walls of Troy
The sons of God fought in that great
Why dost thou walk our common earth
Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,
His purple galley and his Tyrian men
And treacherous Aphrodite's mocking eyes ?
For surely it was thou, who, like a ster
Hung in the silver silence of the night,
Didst lure the Old World's chivalry and might
Into the clamorous crimson waves of war 1
Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon ?
In amorous Sidon was thy temple built
Over the light and laughter of the sea ?
Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and
Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee
All through the waste and wearied hours of
MCtOCOPY tlSOlUTION TiST CHAHI
(ANSI ond ISC TEST CHART No. 2)
A TIPPLED ItvMGE In
'653 East Mam Street
Roctiester. Htm lark Uf
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Till her wan cheek with flame of passion
And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss
Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned
From Calp^ and the cliffs of Herakles I
No ! thou art Helen, and none other one 1
It was for thee that young Sarped6n died,
And M?mn6n's manhood was untimely
It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried
With Thetis' child that evil race to run.
In the last year of thy beleaguerment ;
Ay 1 even now the glory of thy fame
Bums in those fields of trampled asphodel.
Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so
Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.
Where hast thou been ? in that enchanted land
W hose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew.
Where never mower rose at break of day
But all unswathed the trammelling grasses
And the sad shepherd saw the tail corn stand
Till summer's red had changed to withered
Didst thou lie there by some L.etha;an stream
Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,
THE NEW HELEN
The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam
From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry ?
Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill
With one who is forgotten utterly.
That discrowned Queen men call
Hidden away that never mightst thou see
The face of Her, before whose moulderine
To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;
Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening.
But only Love's intolerable pain.
Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain.
Only the bitterness of child-bearing.
The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of
Lie in thy hand ; O, be thou kind to me,
While yet I know the summer of my
days ; '
For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath
To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,
so bowed am I before thy mystery ;
So bowed and broken on Love's terrible wheel
That I have lost aU hope and heart to sing. '
Yet care I not what ruin time may bring
If m thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.
Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,
But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,
Who flies before the north wind and the
So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear.
Back to the tower of thine old delight.
And the red lips of young Euphorion;
Nor shall I ever see thy face again.
But in tliis poisonous garden-close must stay.
Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of
Till all my loveless, life shall pass away.
O Helen 1 Helen 1 Helen I yet a while.
Yet for a little while, O, tarry here.
Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!
For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile
Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear.
Seeing I know no other god but thee :
No other god save him, before whose feet
In nets of gold the tired planets move.
The incarnate spirit of spiritual love
Who in thy body holds his joyous seat
Thou wert not born as common women are !
But, girt with silver splendour of the foam.
Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise I
And at thy coming some immortal star,
THE NEW HELEN
Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern
And waked the shepherds on thine island-
Thou shalt not die : no asps of Egypt creep
Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air ;
No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair.
Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.
Lily of love, pure and inviolate I
Tower of ivory 1 red rose of fire !
Thou hast come down our darkness
For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,
Wearied with waiting for the World's Desire,
Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom.
Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne
For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness.
Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,
And the white glory of thy loveliness.
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
HIS English Thames is hoher far than
Those liarebells like a sudden flush of
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
T fleck their blue waves,— God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale
monks bear I
Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shakt
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun.
His eyes half shut,— He is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus ! look at those gaudy scales
all green and gold.
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Paltestrina, one would sav
The mighty master's hands were on the keys
Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the I'ope is
From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze ga'es and the crowded
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless
Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
Tliat stays to vex tlie moon more fair than
Rome's lordliest pageants 1 strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now — those common poppies in the wheat
seem twice as fine.
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained
And makes God's body from the common fruit
of corn and vine.
THE niTRDEN OF ITVS
Poor Fra Giovatmi hawling at the mitss
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and throuf;h the long cool grass,
I see that tiirobbing throat which once I
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of
Salumis meets sea.
Sweet is the swallow iwittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid
Iier little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths
across the farmyard gate.
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas.
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown
And sweet the fretful swarms o' grumbling bees
That round and round the lu.den blossoms
And sweet the heifer breathing ir the stall
And the green bursting figs that hang upoli the
And sweet to hear tlie cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well.
And siveet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about
the wattled fold.
And sweet with young I^ycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-trancM day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While for beneath us frets the troubled purple
of the seii.
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his
By the green water-flags, ah ! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-
fleeced flock to feed.
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister.
Though what thou sing'st be thine
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
Of thine own tragedies ! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can
Which Grecian mendows know not, many a
Wliich all day long in vales / >lian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty, lilies too
Ilissus never mirrored star our streams. And
Dot the green wheat which, though they are
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines ;
Even that little weed of ragged red.
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung
Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for, diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were
For Cytherwa's browi are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing
There is a tiny yellow daffodil.
The butterfly can see it from afar.
Although one summer evening's dew could
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal, each leaf is flecked with
As if Jove's gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them ! the slight stem which bears
the burden of its suns
Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne's silver tapestry, —
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
Ofan untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river's marge Narcissus lies,
llie tangle of the forest in his hair
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken, memories
Who is not boy nor giri and yet is both,
ttd by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For loves own sake to leave the other's side
Yet killmg love by staying, memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent
Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
*ar out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
inat Uionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her, memories of what
With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room.
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Inmmmg with dainty hand his helmet's
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan.
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax
hurled the stone ;
Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch.
And all those tales imperishably stored
In httle Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever 1 these at least bring
For well I know they are not dead at all.
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy.
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys
laughed and played.
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across tlie Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the
Attic poets' spring, —
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
Ah I tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day I
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished
Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me I for I too love
Sing on 1 sing on ! let the dull world grow
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod.
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed
the boyish God.
Sing on 1 sing on I and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yeUow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the
mountain kid I
Sing on I and I will wear the leopard skin.
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Citiiffiron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from tiie treading I ay, before tlie flicker-
ing lamp of dawn
Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest.
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans.
Some Mffinad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleepintr
Pans ^ ^
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh
and leap will rush
Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore.
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a
wicker crate !
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
Sing on I and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will
Th-; Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the cliestniit-copses all a-bloom.
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride.
After yon velvet-coated deer tlie virgin maid
Sing on I and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood tlie waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where
Adon lies 1
Cry out aloud on Itys I memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,~0 to be free.
To burn one's old ships I and to launch again
In ) the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-
flowered caves I
O for Medea with her poppied spell I
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian
Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead.
Ere yet her sombre I.ord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed.
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick
and sunless day.
O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm I
that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that
giant breast my lairl
Sing on I sing on 1 I would be arunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my
1 would forget the wearying wasted strife.
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and tlie cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull in-
sensate air I
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
Sing on I sing on I O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by .!ead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps,
perchance for nie ?
O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell I
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene !
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly I
Cease, Philomel, tliou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild im-
passioned song !
Cease, cease, or if 't is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral tlirush her simpler air.
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah ! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames
Pan plash and paddle groping for some recri
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half
A moment trore, the waking dove had cooed.
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had
Her r.anton from the chase, and Dryope
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from tlie swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon.
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the
THE BURDEN OF ITVS
Down leaning from his black and clustering
To shade those slumberous eyelids' cavemed
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravislied Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo
an« ' pricking spear.
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie stUl I
O Melarcholy. fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Coine not with sucli despondent answerinifl
No more thou winged Mursyas complain
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled sonm
of pain 1 *
It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air.
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness
And from the copse left desolate and bare '
Fled is young IJacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that
So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory,
Poor mourning Pliilomel, what dost thou fesrt
Thy sister dotli not haunt these iir.lds, Pandion
is not here,
Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of bloody heraldries.
But mossy delis for roving comrades made.
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and miin_\ a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled t- wing-path, where lute
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with the!.- noisy cries the racing
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads.
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky
Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleat-
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a fuint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Saudford
THE BURDEN OF ITYS
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like
swallows up the hill.
The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering
Gold worid by worid the silent stars appear.
And hke a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the sliimmering sky
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she
She knows Endymion is not far away,
Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play
So pipes another's bidding, it is I,
Drifting witii every wind on the wide sea of
Ahl the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still.
So still that one might hear the bat's smaU
Wander and wheel tbove the pines, or tell
E«ch tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell'i
And far away across the lengthening wold,
Acros-^ the willowy flats and thick.ts brown
Magdttl « tall tower tipped with tremulous
Marks the 1-ag High Sireet of the little town.
And warns me to return ; I must not wait.
Hark I 'tis the curfew booming from the bell at
Christ Church gate.
IMPRESSION DU MATIN
THE Thames nocturne of blue and .rold
Changed to a Harmony in jrrey •"
A barge with ochre-colourc j hay
iJropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down
Ihe bridges, till the houses' walls
Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul's
Loomed hke a bubble o'er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons : and a bird
a lew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair
vJ^'\"^^^^'^'"'^^ *^« »"* J*™?"' flare.
With hps v>f flame and heart of stone
THE little white clouds are racine over
And the fields are strewn with the eold
of the flower of March ,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's
glad birth, *
Hopping from branch to branch on the rockinjr
And all the woods are aUve with the murmur
and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering
some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its
mantle of green.
And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is
lit witli the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver
breast of a dove.
Seel the lark starts up from his bed in the
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets
And flashing adown the river, a flame of
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds
And the sense of my life is sweet! though I
know that the end is nigh :
For the ruin and rain of winter will shortly
The lily will lose its gold, and the chestnut-
In billows of red and white on the grass will lie.
And even the light of the sun wiU fade at the
And the leaves will fall, and the birds will
And I will be left in the snow of a flowerless
To think on the glories of Spring, and the joys
of a youth long past.
Yet be silent, my heart I do not count it a
To have seen the splendour of the sun, and of
grass, and of flower !
To have lived and loved! for I hold that to
love for an liour
Is better for man and for woman than cycles of
TO that gaunt House of Art which lacks
""Lt TLr"* '^'"'^ "'" ''"^ ^"^^'^
The withered body of a girl was brought
Bead ere the world's glad youth had touched
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.
But when they had unloosed the linen band
Which swathed the Egyptian's body.-lol
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand
A little seed, which sown in English ground
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms £ar
And spread rich odours through our spring-tide
With such strange arts this flower did allure
1 hat all forgotten was the asphodel,
And the brown bee, the lily's paramour,
Fnr „T i "^ '"^ "^^^'^ ^^ ^«^ ««nt to dwell.
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be
But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.'
In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white
Then 7^ ^^""^y^ ''""« *«««'»' the stream
With ,ts gold dust to make his wings a-deam
Or iru^h H ^'^'"'^ jasmine-bloom to^liss- '
Or brush the ram-pearls from the eucharis.
For love of it the passionate nightingale
aLT '^,' .^'"^ °'" '^^""''' the cruel king
i hrough the wet woods at time of blossomino
W^S^ ''^'' °/^^P* sought roToaT
With silvered wing and amethystine throat
While the hot sun bhzed in his tower of blue
A coohng wind crept from the land of snows.
And the warm south with tender tears of deJ
Drenched its white leaves when HespeTos
Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky
On which the scarlet bars of sunset he
But when o'er wastes of lily-haunted field
tune? *"*'^ ''"^'^ '^''' '""""'"s
And^broad Ind glitteiing like an argent shield
High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon.
Did no strange dream or evil memoir make
Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake ?
Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years
Seemed but the lingering of a summer's day.
^J'}""^"^ ^^^ ^^^ °<" cankering fears
Which turn a boys gold hair to withered
The dread desire of death it never knew.
Or how all folk that they were bom must rue.
For we to death with pipe and dancing go.
Nor would we pass the ivory gate a^ain,
As some sad nver wearied of its flow
Through the dull plains, the haunts of
Leaps lover-Uke into the terrible sea I
And counta it gain to die so gloriously.
^^^^.u T '""^'^ **'"^"S*h '» b^ren strife
With the worid's legions led by clamorous
It never feels decay but gathers life
From the pure sunlight and the supreme
We live beneath Time's wasting sovereijmtv
It is the child of all eternity. ^'^'^"ty,
The woes of man may serve an idle lay
Nor were it hard fond hearers to enthral.
Telling how Egypt's glory passed away.
How I^ndon from its pinnacle must fall •
But this white flower, the conqueror of time,
^»eems all too great for any boyish rhyme.
THE western wind is blowing fair
Across the dark ^gean sea,
», rT^^ "* ^^^ *^*""et marble stair
My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down I the purple sail is spread.
1 he watchman sleeps within the town
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
O Lady mine come down, come down I
She wiU not come, I know her well.
Of lover's vows she hath no care.
And httle good a man can tell
Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman's toy,
'I'hey never know the lover's pain.
And I who loved as loves a boy
Must love in vain, must love in vain.
O noble pilot, tell me true.
Is that the sheen of golden hair»
Or IS it but the tangled dew
That binds the passion-flowers there?
! i :■
Good sailor come and tell me now
Is that my Lady's lily haP" f
Or is it but the glcumlnf; prow,
Or is it but the silver sand ?
No I no 1 'tis not the tangled dew,
'Tis not the silver-fretted sand.
It is my own dear Lady true
Witli golden hair and lily hand I
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
Whom we must bear from Grecian shore I
The wanmg sky grows faint and blue.
It wants an hour still of day.
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
O Lady mine, «way ! away I
O noble pilol,, steer for Troy,
Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy !
O loved for ever evermore I
THE apple trees are hnnjr with gold.
And birds are loud in Arcady,
The sheep lie bleating in the fold.
The wild goat runs across the wold,
But yesterday his love he told,
I know he will come back to me.
O rising moon ! O Lady moon 1
Be you my lover's sentinel,
You cannot choose but know him well.
For he is shod with purple shoon.
You cannot choose but know my love.
For he a shepherd's crook doth bear,
And he is soft as any dove.
And brown and curly is his hair.
The turtle now has ceased to call
Upon her crimson-footed groom.
The grey wolf prowls about the stall.
The lily's singing seneschal
Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all
The violet hills are lost in gloom.
O risen moon 1 O holy moon I
Stmnd on the top of Helice,
And if my own true love you lee.
Ah I if you see the purple shoon,
The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair,
The gottt-skin wrapped about his arm.
Tell him that I am waiting where
The rusiilight glimmers in the Farm.
The falling dew is cold and chill.
And no bird sings in Arcady,
The little fauns have left the hill.
Even the tired Jaffodil
Has closed its gildrd doors, and still
My lover comes not back to me.
False moon ! False moon 1 O waning moon !
Where is my own true lover gone.
Where are the lips vermilion.
The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon ?
Why spread that silver pavilion.
Why wear that veil of drifting mist ?
Ah I thou hast young Endymiun,
Thou hast tlie lips that should be kissed 1
LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA
MY limbs are wasted with a flame.
My feet are sore with travelling.
For, calling on my Lady's name.
My lips have now forgot to sing.
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake.
My gentle Lady passeth by.
O almond-blossoms bend adown
Until ye reach her drooping head ;
O twining brunches weave a crown
Of apple-blossoms white and red.
She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight.
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moon-lit water in the night
Her nair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair I)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is.
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun.
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-sf^ded, is her crimson mouth.
Her cheeks, are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands ! O delicate
White body made for love and pain 1
O House of love I O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain 1
God can bring Winter unto May,
And change the sky to flame and blue.
Or summer corn to gold from grey :
One thing alone He cannot do.
He cannot change my love to hate.
Or make thy face less fair to see.
Though now He knocketh at the gate
With life and death— for you and me.
A RING of gold and a milk-white dove
Are goodly gifts for thee,
And a hempen rope for your own love
To hang upon a tree.
For you a House of Ivory,
(Roses are white in the rose-bower) !
A narrow bed for me to lie,
(White, O white, is the hemlock flower) I
Myrtle and jessamine for you,
(O the red rose is fair to see) I
For me the cypress and the rue,
(Fairest of all is rosemary) !
For you three lovers of your hand,
(Green grass where a man lies dead) I
For me three paces on the sand,
(Plant lilies at my head) I
HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home
With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily
Stood at his galley's prow, and let t'le
Blow through his crisp brown curls uncon-
And holding wave and wind in boy's despite
Peered from his dripping seat across the wet
and stormy night
Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear
Like a thin thread of gold against the sky.
And hoisted sr.il, and strained the creaking gear.
And bade the pilot head her lustily
Against the nor'west gale, and all day long
Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time
with measured song,
And when the faint Corinthian hills were red
Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,
And witli fresh boughs of olive crowned his
And brushed from cheek and throat the
And washed his limbs with oil, and from the
Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals
And a rich robe stained with t'le fishes' juice
Which of some swarthy trader he had bought
Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,
And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought.
And by the questioning merchants made his way
Up through the soft and silver woods, and when
the labouring day
Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,
Clomb the higli bill, and with swift silent feet
Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd
Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat
Watched the young swains his frolic playmates
The firstling of their little flock, and the shy
The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang
His studded crook against the temple wall
To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang
Of the base wolf from homestead and from
a!!h J''^" *''^/>"r-voiced maidens 'gan to sing,
offerin "■"" ^™"«''* "'""'' ^^'^
A beechen cup brimming with milky foam.
A fair cloth wrought witii cunning imagery
Ofhounds m chase, a waxen honey-comb
Urippmg with oozy gold which scarce the
Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil
Meetfor the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce
and white-tusked spoil
Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid
lo please Athena, and the dappled hide
Ut a tall stag who in some mountain .'lade
Had met the shaft; and then the herald
And from the pillared precinct one by one
Went the glad Greeks weU pleased that they
their simple vows had done.
And the old priest put out the waning fires
have that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed
For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres
Came fainter on the wind, as down the road
In joyous dance these country folk did pass
And with stout i.ands the warder closed' the
gates of polished brass.
Long time he ]ay and hardly dared to breathe.
And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine.
And the rose- petals falling from the wreath
As the night breezes wandered through the
And seemed to be in some entranced swoon
Till through the open roof above the full and
Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,
When from his nook up leapt the venturous
And flinging wide the cedar-earven door
Belield an awful image saffron-clad
And armed for battle ! the gaunt Griffin glared
From the huge helm, and the long lance of
wreck and ruin flared
Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled
The Gorgon's head its leaden eyeballs rolled.
And writhed its snaky horrors through the
And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold
In passion impotent, while with blind gaze
The blinking owl between the feet hooted in
The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp
Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast
The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp
C f horses smite the waves, and a wild blast
Divide the folded curtains of the night,
And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in
And guilty lovers in their venery
Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,
Deeming they heard dread Dian's bitter cry ;
And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats
Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,
Or strained black-bearded throats across the
For round the temple rolled the clang of arms.
And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble
And the air quaked with dissonant alarums
Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,
And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed.
And the low tread of hurr -ing feet rang from
Ready for death with parted lips he stood.
And well content at such a price to see
That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood.
The marvel of that pitiless chastity.
Ah I well content indeed, for never wight
Since Troy's 3^oung shepherd prince had seen so
wonderful a sijrht.
Ready for death he stood, but lo 1 the air
Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,
And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,
And from his limbs he threw the cloak away.
For whom would not such love make desperate.
And nigher came, and touched her throat, and
with hands violate
Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,
And bared the breasts of polished ivory,
Till from the waist the peplos falling down
Left visible the secret mystery
Which to no lover will Athena show.
The grand cool flanks, t'l- crescent thighs, the
bossy hills of snow.
Those who have never known a lover's sin
Let them not read my ditty, it will be
To their dull ears so musicless and thin
That they will have no joy of it, but ye
To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering
Ye who have learned who Eros is, — O listen
A little space he let his greedy eyes
Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight
Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries.
And then his lips in hungering delight
Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck
He flung his arms, nor cared at aU his passion's
will to check.
Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,
For all night long he murmured honeyed
And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed
Her pale and argent body undisturbed.
And paddled with the polished throat, and
His hot and beating heart upon her chill and
It was as if Numidian javelins
Pierced through and through his wild and
And his nerves thriUed like throbbing violins
In exquisite pulsation, and the pain
Was such sweet anguish that he never drew
His lips from hers till overhead the lark of
They who have never seen the daylight peer
And wi?h 7^r"^ '"T- '^^ '^'■'»™ thecurtain.
And with dull eyes and wearied from some dea^
And worshipped body risen, they for certain
Will never know of what I try to sinir.
How long the last kiss was, how fond and late
The moon was girdled with • crystal rim,
The sign which !«hipmen say is ominous
Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,
And the low lightening east was tremulous
With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn.
Ere from the silent sombre shrine this lover had
Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast
Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of
And heard the goat- foot snoring as he passed,
And leapt upon a jfrassy knoll and ran
Like a young fawn unto an olive wood
Which in a shady valley by the well-built city
And sought a little stream, which well he knew.
For oftentimes with boyish careless shout
The green and crested grebe he would pursue.
Or snare in woven net the silver trout.
And down amid the startled reeds he lay
Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited
for the day.
On the green bank he lay, and let one hand
Dip in the co il dark eddies listlessly.
And soon the breath of morning came and fanned
His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly
He"o?fh? '"'•' '""" ""^^'^ ''"'-'•ead. while
"^tSlTi" '"'"P''"'^ •" -"^»> -«oIlen cloak
And when the liKht-foot mower went afield
Nor deemed h.m born of mortals an^ «
Who witi, „ V . • ^ ^"'"^ '■unaway
Wfto witli a Naiad now would make hi/h.A
Forgetting Herakles' but othei -N " '
It IS Narcissus, his own paramour, ^•
And when they nearer came a third one cried,
' It is young Dionysos who has hid
His spear and fawnskin by the river side
Weary of hunting with the Bassarid.
And wise indeed were we away to fly
They live not long who on the gods immortal
come to spy.'
So turned they back, and feared to look behind,
And told the timid swain how they had seen
Amid the reeds some woodland God reclined.
And no man dared to cross the open green.
And on that day no olive-tree was slain.
Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair
Save when the neat-herd's lad, his empty pail
Well slung upon his back, with leap and
Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail.
Hoping that he some comrade new had found.
And gat no answer, and then half afraid
Passed on his simple way, or down the still and
A little girl ran laughing from the farm,
Not thinking of love's secret mysteries.
And when she saw the white and gleaming arm
And all his manlihood, with longing eyes
Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity
Watched him awhile, and then stole back
sadly "• 1 wearily.
Far off he heard the city's hum and noise.
And now and then the shriller laughter where
The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys
Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air.
And now and then a little tinkling bell
As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the
Through the grey willows danced the fretful
The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree.
In sleek and oily coat the water-rat
Breasting the little ripples manfully
Made for the wild-duck's nest, from bough to
Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise
crept across the slough.
On the faint wind floated the silky seeds
As the bright scythe swept through the
The ousel-cock splashed circles in the reeds
And flecked with silver whorls the forest's
Which scarce had caught agaiu its imagery
Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the
But little care had he for any thing
Though up and down the beech the squirrel
And from the copse the linnet 'gan to sing
To her brown mate her sweetest serenade;
Ah ! little care indeed, for he had seen
The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of
But when the herdsman called his straggling
With whistling pipe across the rocky road.
And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes
Boomed through the darkening woods, and
seemed to bode
Of coming storm, and the belated crane
Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull
big drops of rain
Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose.
And from the gloomy forest went his way
Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close.
And came at last unto a little quay.
And called his mates aboard, and took his seat
On the high poop, and pushed from land, and
loosed the dripping sheet,
And steered across the bay, and when nine suns
Passed down the long and laddered way of
And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons
To the chaste stars their confessors, or told
Their dearest secret to the downy moth
That will not fly at noonday, through the foam
and surging froth
Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes
And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked
As though the lading of three argosies
Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and
And darkness straightway stole across the deep.
Sheathed was Orion's sword, dread Mars him-
self fled down the steep.
And the moon hid behind a tawny mask
Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean's maige
Rose the red plume, the huge and horned casque.
The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe !
And clad in bright and burnislied panoply
Athena strode across the stretch of sick and
shivering sea 1
To the dull sailors' sight her loosened locks
Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet
Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,
And, marking how the rising waters beat
Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried
To the young helmsman at the stern to luflF to
But he, the overbold rdulterer,
A dear profaner of great mysteries.
An ardent amorous idolater,
When he beheld those grand relentless eyes
Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ' I come '
Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and
Then fell from the high heaven one bright star.
One dancer left the circling galaxy.
And back to Athens on her clattering car
In all the pride of venged divinity
Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,
And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy
And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew
With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,
And the old pilot bade the trembling crew
Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen
Close to the stem a dim and giant form,
And like a dipping swallow the stout ship
dashed through the storm.
And no man dared to speak of Charmides
Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,
And when they reached the strait Symplegades
They beached their galley on che shore, and
The toll-gate of the city hastily.
And in the market showed their brown and
BUT some good Triton-god had ruth, and
The boy's drowned body back to Grecian
And mermaids combed his dank and dripping
And smoothed his brow, and loosed his
Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,
And others bade the halcyon sing her softest
And when he neared his old Athenian home,
A mighty billow rose up suddenly
Upon whose oily back the clotted foam
Lay diapered in some strange fantasy.
And clasping him unto its glassy breast
Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon
a venturous quest 1
Now where Colonos leans unto the sea
There lies a long and level stretch of lawn.
The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee
For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun
is not afraid, for never through the day
Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd
lads at play. ^
But often from the thorny labyrinth
Th^"? V^ '"""•=''^* °^^^^ "^«=ling wood
The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth
Hurhng the polished disk, and draws his hood
Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,
Nor dares to wind his horn, or-else at the first
break of day
The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball
Along the reedy shore, and circumvent
Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal
For fear of bold Poseidon's ravishment,
And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes.
Lest from the surf his a2ure arms and purpTe
beard should rise.
On this side and on that a rocky cave,
Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands
Smooth IS tlie beach, save where some eS
Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,
As though It feared to be too soon forgot
% the green rush, its playfellow.-and yet. it
is a spot ''
So small, that the inconstant butterfly
Could steal the hoarded honey from each
Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy
Its over-greedy love, — within an hour
A sailor boy, were he but rude enow
To land and pluck a garland for his galley's
Would almost leave the little meadow bare,
For it knows nothing of great pageantry.
Only a few narcissi here and there
Stand separate in sweet austerity.
Dotting the un-mown grass with silver stars.
And here and there a daffodil waves tiny
Hither the billow brought him, and was glad
Of such dear servitude, and where the land
Was virgin of all wattrs laid the lad
Upon the golden margent of the strand.
And like a lingering lover oft returned
To kiss those pallid limbs which once with
intense fire burned.
Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust.
That self-fed flame, tliat passionate lustihead.
Ere grisly death with chill and nipping iirost
Had withered up those lilies white and red
Which, while the boy would through the forest
Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal
And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-
Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied
The boy's pale body stretched upon the sand.
And feared Poseidon's treachery, and cried.
And like bright sunbeams flitting through a
Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy
Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be
So dread a thing to feel a sea-god's arms
Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny.
And longed to listen to those subtle charms
Insidious lovers weave when they would win
Some fenced fortress, and stole back again, nor
thought it sin
To yield her treasure unto one so fair.
And lay beside him, thirsty with love's drouth.
Called him soft names, played with his tangled
And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth
AfWkid he might not wake, and then afraid
Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and
then, fond renegade.
Returned to fresh assault, and all dajr long
Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy.
And held his hand, and sanj? her sweetest song.
Then frowned to see how froward was the boy
Who would not with her maidenhood entwine.
Nor knew that three days since his eyes hMl
looked on Proserpine,
Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done.
But said, ' He will awake, I know him well.
He will awake at evening when the sun
Hangs his red shield on Corinth's citadel.
This sleep is but a cruel treachery
To make me love him more, and in some cavern
of the sea
Deeper than ever falls the fisher's line
Already a huge Triton blows his horn.
And weaves a garland from the crystalline
And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn
The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,
For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral-
We two will sit upon a throne of pearl.
And a blue wave will be our canopy,
And at our feet the water-snakes will curl
In all their amethystine panoply
Of diamonded mail, and we will mark
The mullets swimming by the mast of some
Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold
Likeflakes of crimson light, and the great deep
His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold.
And we will see the painted dolphins sleep
Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks
Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures
his monstrous flocks.
And tremulous opal-hued anemones
Will wave their purple fringes where we tread
Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies
Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread
The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck.
And honey-coloured amber beads our twining
limbs will deck.'
But when that bafiled Lord of War the Sun
With gaudy pennon flying passed away
Into his brazen House, and one by one
The little yellow stars began to stray
Across the field of heaven, ah ! then indeed
She feared his lips upon her lips would never
care to feed,
And cried, ' Awake, already the pale moon
Washes the trees with silver, and the wave
Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune.
The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave
The night-jar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass.
And the brown stoat with hollow flank:, creeps
through the dusky gra8<i.
Nay, though thou art a God, be not so coy,
For in yon stream there is a little reed
That often wH'spers how a lovely boy
Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,
WI;T wh- li his cruel pleasure he had done
Spre^J wings of rustling gold and soared aloft
into the sun.
Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still
With great Apollo's kisses, and the fir
Whose clustering listers fringe the seaward hiU
Hath many a tale of tliat bold ravishcr
Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen
The mocking eyes of Hermes through the
poplar's silvery sheen.
Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,
And every mom a young and ruddy swain
Woos me with apples and with locks of hair.
And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain
By all the gift* the gentle wood-nymphs loTe;
But yesterday he brought to me an iris-pluroaged
With little crimson feet, which with its store
Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad
Had stolen from the loily sycamore
At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had
Flown oif in search of berried juniper
Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that
Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency
So constant as this simple shepherd-boy
For my poor lips, his joyous purity
And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy
A Oryad from her oath to Artemis ;
For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made
His argent forehead, like a rising moon
Over the dusky hills of meeting brows.
Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tynan noon
Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier
For Cytheraea, the first silky down
Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young
limbs are strong and brown :
And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds
Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie.
And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds
Is in his homestead for the thievish fly
To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead
Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe
on oaten reed.
And yet I love him not, it was for thee
I kept my love, I knew that thou would'st
To rid me of this pallid chastity ;
Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam
Of all the wide ^gean, brightest star
Of ocean's azure heavens where the mirrored
planets are 1
I knew that thou wouH'st come, for when at first
The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of
Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst
To myriad multitudinous blossoming
Which mocked the midnight with its mimic
That did not dread the dawn, and first the
thrushes' rapturous tunes
SUrtled the squirrel from its granary,
And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,
Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy
Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein
Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood.
And the wild winds of passion shook my slim
Tlie trooping fawns at evening came and laid
Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs.
And on my topmost branch the blackbird made
A little nest of grasses for his spouse,
And now and then a twittering wren would light
On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of
I was the Attic shepherd's trysting place.
Beneath my shadow Amaryl'is lay,
And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis
The timorous girl, till tired out with play
She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair.
And turned, and looked, and fled no mote from
such delightful snare.
Then come away unto my ambuscade
Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy
For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade
Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify
The dearest rites of love, there in the cool
And green recesses of its &rthest depth there is
The ouzel's haunt, the wild bee's pasturage.
For round its rim great creamy lilies float
Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage.
Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat
Steered by a dragon-fly, — be not afraid
To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely
the place was made
For lovers such as we ; the Cyprian Queen,
One arm around her boyish paramour,
Strays often there at eve, and I have seen
The moon strip off her misty vestiture
For young Endymion's eyes ; be not afraid.
The panther feet of Dian never tre'id that secret
Nay if thou will'st, back to the beating brine,
Back to the boisterous billow let us go.
And walk all day beneath the hyaline
Huge vault of Neptune's watery portico.
And watch the purple monsters of the deep
Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen
For if my mistress find me lying here
She will not ruth or gentle pity show.
But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere
Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,
And draw the feathered notch against her breast.
And loose the archdd cord, ay, even now upon
I hear her hurrying feet,— awake, awake,
Thou laggard in love's battle 1 once at least
Let me drink deep of passion's wine, and slake
My parchM being with the nectarous feast
Which even Gods affect ! O come. Love, come.
Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine
Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering
Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air
Grew conscious of a God. and the grey seas
Crawled backward, and a long and dismal
Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound
And like a flame a barbed reed flew whizzing
down the glade.
And where the little flowers of her breast
^ Just brake into their milky blossoming.
This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest.
Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,
And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,
And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingW
death her heart
Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry
On the boy's body fell the Dryad maid,
Sobbing for incomplete virginity,
And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead.
And all the pain of things unsatisfied.
And the bright drops of crimson youth crept
down her throbbing side.
Ah I pitiful it was to hear her moan.
And very pitiful to see her die
Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known
The joy of passion, that dread mystery
Which not to know is not to live at all.
And yet to know is to be held in death's most
But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,
Who with Adonis all Tiight long had lain
Within some shepherd's hut in Arcady,
On team of silver doves and gilded wain
Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar
From mortal ken between the mountains and
the morning star.
And when low down she spied the hapless pair.
And lieard the O- .~ad's faint despairing cry.
Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air
As though it were a viol, hastily
She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume
And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, an<l
saw their dolorous doom.
For as a gardener turning back his head
To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows
With careless scyt:.e too near some flower
And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose.
And with the flower's loosened loveliness
Strews the brown mould, or as some shepherd
lad in wantonness
Driving his little flock along the mead
Treads down two daffodils which side
Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede
And made the gaudy moth forget its pride
Treads down their brimming golden chalices '
Under light feet which were not made for such
Or as a schoolboy tired of his book
Flings himself down upon the reedy grass
And plucks two water-lilies from the brook.
And for a time forgets the hour glass
Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way
And lets the hot sun kill them, even so these
And Venus cried, ' It is dread Artemis
Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,
Or else that mightier maid whose care it is
To guard her strong and stainless majesty
Upon the hill Athenian, — alas !
That they who loved so well unloved into
death's house should pass.
So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl
In the great golden waggon tenderly.
Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl
Just threaded with a blue vein's tapestry
Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast
Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous
And then each pigeon spread its milky van.
The bright car soared into the dawning sky.
And like a cloud the aerial caravan
Passed over the ^Egean silently,
Till the faint air was troubled with the song
From the wan mouths that call on bleeding
Thammuz all night long.
But when the doves had reached their wonted
Where the wide stair of orb^d marble dips
Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul
Just shook the trembling petals of her lips
And passed into the void, and Venus knew
That one fair maid the less would walk amid
And bade her servants carve a cedar chest
With all the wonder of this history,
Within whose scented womb their limbs should
Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky
On the low hills of Paphos, and the faun
Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings
on till dawn.
Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere
The morning bee had stung the daffodil
With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair
The waking stag liad leapt across the rill
And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept
Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their
And when day brake, within that silver shrine
Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous.
Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine
That she whose beauty made Death amorous
Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,
And let Desire pass across dread Charon's icy
IN meUncholy moonless Acheron,
Far from tiie goodly earth and joyous day,
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor.
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets
mate no more.
There by a dim and dark Lethsan well
Young Charmides was lying, wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel.
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the
land was like a dream.
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair's curly tangles
His own wan face, a shad ^w seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their
secret forth into a sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw.
And ever nigher still their faces came.
And niglier ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame.
And longing arms around her neck he cast.
And felt her throbbing bosom, and hb breath
came hot and fast.
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss.
And all her maidenhood was his to slay.
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned, — O why
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed !
Enough, enough that Erds laughed upon that
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion ! fold thy wings
O'er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre's silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill.
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned
Sappho's golden quill 1
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of !>in, a splendid shame.
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded, — ah I enou^ that once
their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna
loosed her zone.
FLOWERS OF GOLD
THE tea is flecked with Hurs o^^-y,
The dull dead wind is out of tune.
And like a withered ieaf iJie ;Qoon
Is blown across the stormy bay.
Etched clear upon the pallid sand
Lies the black boat : a sailor boy
Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.
And overhead the curlews cry.
Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass.
Like silhouettes against the sky.
. . .13 i
LA FUITE DE LA LUNE
TO outer senses there is peace,
A dreamy peace on either hand,
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.
Save for a cry that echoes shrill
From some lone bird disconsolate ;
A corncrake calling to its mate ;
The answer from the misty hill.
And suddenly the moon withdraws
Her sickle from the lightening skies,
And to her sombre cavern flies.
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.
FLOWERS OF GOLD
THE GRAVE OF KEATS
RID of the world's injustice, and his pain,
He rests at last beneath God's veil of
Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain.
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew.
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery 1
O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene I
O poet-painter of our English Land !
Thy name was writ in water it shall stand :
And tears like mine will keep thy memory
As Isabella did her Basil-tree.
SINGER of Persephone !
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily ?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state ;
O Singer of Persephone !
Simsetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate ;
Dost thou remember Sicily ?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate ;
O Singer of Persephone I
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate ;
Dost thou remember Sicily ?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee.
For thee the jocund shepherds wait ;
O Singer of Persephone 1
Dost thou remember Sicily ?
FLOWERS OF GOLD
IN THE GOLD ROOM
HER ivory hands on the ivory keys
Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
Like the silver gleam when the poplar
Rustle their pale leaves listlessly,
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
When the waves show their teeth in the flyine
Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
On the burnished disk of the marigold,
Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun
When the gloom of the dark blue night is
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.
And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Uumed like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet '
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.
BALLADE DE MARGUERITE
AM weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack I and alack ! thou art overbold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green ?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestre.
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
1 might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
BALLADE DE MARGUERITE
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o'er hill and mere ?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy I)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the belL
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale.
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array ?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play ?
'T is the King of England from over sea.
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low ?
And why do the mourners walk a-row ?
O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay. nay, for I see white lilies clear.
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
1 knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair.
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin 1)
But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet,
• EUe est morte, la Marguerite."
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed.
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true :
O mother, hatli one grave room for two ?
FLOWERS OF GOLD
THE DOLE OF THE KING'S
SEVEN stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky ;
Seven sins on the King's daughter.
Deep in her soul to lie.
Red roses are at her feet,
(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her bosom and girdle meet
Red roses are hidden there.
Fair is the knight who lieth slain
Amid the rush and reed.
See the lean fishes that are fain
Upon dead men to feed.
Sweet is the page that lieth there,
(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
Black, O black as the night are they.
What do they there so stark and dead !
(There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies Hecked with red ?
(There is bkad on the river sand.)
There are two that ride from the south and
And two from the north and west.
For the black raven a goodly feast.
For the King's daught^ ^est.
There is one man who ir /es her true,
(Red, O red, is the stain of gore I)
He hath diiggen a grave by the darksome yew,
(One grave will do for four.)
No moon in the still heaven.
In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven.
The sin upon his is one.
FLOWERS OF GOLD
OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
And ploughed free turrows through the wave
Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
Till we had freighted weU our argosy.
Of which despoilM treasures these remain,
Sordello's passion, and the honeyed line
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
Driving his pampered jades, and, more than
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies.
THE Gods are de«d: no longer do we
To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of dive-
Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves.
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
By secret glade and devious haunt is o'er :
Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;
Great Pan is dead, and Mary's son is King.
And yet — perchance in this sea-tranced isle.
Chewing the bitter fruit of nnemory,
Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.
Ah Love ! if such there be, then it were well
For us to fly his anger : nay, but see,
The leaves are stirring : let us watch awhile.
FLOWERS OF GOLD
TWO crownM Kings, and One that stood
With no green weight of laurels round
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone.
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with
I cried to Beatricd, ' Who are these ? '
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
' iEschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears 1) Euripides.'
MIOOCOTY MSOIUTION TEST CHAKT
lANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2)
IJJS lu I,.
A APPLIED INA^GE In,
165J Eost Moin Stre
IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE
HE sea was sapphire coloured, and the
Burned like a heated opal through the
We hoisted sail ; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward he.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak.
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls' laughter at the stem,
Tlie only sounds : — when 'gan the West to burn.
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
1 stood upon the soil of Greece at last 1
FLOWERS OF GOLD
THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY
LIKE bumt-out torches by a sick man's bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the
-^ sun-bleached stone ;
Here doth the little night-owl make her
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red.
In the still chamber of yon pyramid
Surely some Old- World Sphinx lurks darkly
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.
Ah ! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep.
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep.
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
Against the rocks of some wave-shattered
BY THE ARNO
THE oleander on the wall
Grows crimson in the dawning
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.
The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossoms overhead.
But ah 1 the grasshoppers have iled,
The little Attic song is still.
Only the leaves are gently stirred
By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingi;le is heard.
The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love !
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.
Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green vest the morning steals.
And to love's frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn
BY THE ARNO
Fast climbing up the eastern sky
To grasp a»d slay the shuddering night.
All careless of my heart's delight.
Or if the nightingale should die.
IMPRESSIONS DE THEATRE
FABIEN DEI FRANCHI
To My Fbiend Henry Irving
THE silent room, the heavy creeping
The dead that travel fast, the opening
The murdered brother rising through the
The ghost's white Angers on thy shoulders laid.
And then the lonely duel in the glade.
The broken s\/ords, the stiHed scream, the
Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er, —
These tilings are well enough, — but thou wert
For more august creation I frenzied Lear
Should at thy bidding wander on the heath
With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo
For thee should lure his love, and desperate
Pluck Richard's recreant dagger from its
Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to
blow I ^
To SaKAH BKKNIIAaUT
How vain and dull this common world
To such a Oiip as thou, who should'st
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe :
'^hou should'st have gathered reeds from a
For Goat-foot Pan's shrill piping, and 'lave
With the white girls in th.ut Phaeacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.
Ah ! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wart weary of the sunless day.
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel.
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell
WRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM
To Elien Teert
I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold :
Tor in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom 1 behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
'ine sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio's heart to that accurst Jew —
O Portia I take my heart : it is thy due :
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.
QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
To Ei.u.4 TiEtr
IN the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the
mists of pain.
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain :
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry
To her proud soul no common fear can bring;
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold 1 O Crimson Lips 1 O Face
Made for the luring and the love of man !
With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place.
Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread
My freedom, and my life republican 1
IMPRESSIONS DE THfiAXRE
AS one who poring on a Grecian urn
/-% Scans the fair shapes some Attic
liand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with
And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent blisr
When in the midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stem ?
And yet— methinks I 'd rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,— come, great Euypt.
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants I Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium. me thine Anthony 1
NAY, let us walk from fire unto fire,
From passionate pain to deadlier
I am too young to live without desire.
Too young art thou to waste this summer
Asking tliose idle questions which of old
Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was
told. '^ '
For, sweet, to feel is better than to know.
And wisdom is a childless heritage.
One pulse of passion— youth's first fiery glow,—
Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the
Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy.
Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love
and eyes to see !
Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale.
Like water bubbling from a silver jar.
So soft she sings the envious moon is pale.
That high in heaven she is hung so far
She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,
Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist,
yon late and labouring moon.
White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream.
The fallen snow of petals where the breeze
Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam
Of boyis^i limbs in water,— are not these
Enough for thee, dost thou des c more ?
Alas ! the Gods will give nought else from their
For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown
Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour
For wasted days of youth to make atone
By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never.
Hearken they now to either good or ill.
But send their rain upon the just and the unjust
They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease.
Strewing with leaves of rose their scented
They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees
Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine.
Mourning the old glad days before they knew
What evil things the heart of man could dream,
and dreaming do.
And far beneath the brazen floor they see
I.Ike swarming flies the crowd of little men.
The bustle of small lives, then wearily
Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again
Kissmg each others' mouths, and mix more deep
Ihe poppy-seeded draught which brings soft
There all day long the golden- vestured sun,
i heir torch-bearer, stands with his torch
And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun
By Its twelve maidens, through the crimson
Fresh from Endymion's arms comes forth the
And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal
There walks Queen Juno through some dewv
Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron
Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede
Leaps m the hot and amber-ibamingmust,
H,s curls aU tossed, as when the eagle bare
Ihe frightened boy from Ida through the blue
There in the green heart of some garden close
Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side,
Her warm soft body like the briar rose
Which would be white yet blushes at its
Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis
Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for
pain of lonely bliss.
There never does that dreary north-wind blow
Which leaves our English forests bleak and
Nor ever faUs the swift white-feathered snow.
Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare
To wake them in the silver-fretted night
When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin,
some dead delight.
Alas 1 they know the far Lethean spring.
The violet-hidden waters well they know,
Where one whose feet with tired wandering
Are faint and broken may take heart and go.
And from those dark depths cool and crystalline
Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless
souls, and anodyne.
But we oppress our natures, God or Fate
Is our enemy, we starve and feed
On vain repentance— O we are born too late I
What balm for us in bruis^ P<'PPy seed
Who crowd into one finite pulse of time
Tlie joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of
O w ; are wearied of this sense of guilt,
Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair,
Wearied of every temple we have built.
Wearied of every rigiit, unanswered prayer,
For man is weak ; God sleeps : and heaven is high :
One fiery-coloured moment : one great love ;
and lo ! we die.
Ah ! but no ferry-man with labouring pole
Nears his black shallop to the flowerless
No little coin of bronze can bring the soul
Over Death's river to the sunless land.
Victim and wine and vow are all in vain.
The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the
dead rise not again.
We are resolved into the supreme air.
We are made one with what we touch and see.
With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair.
With our young lives each spring-impassioned
Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range
The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all
With beat of systole and of diastole
One grand great life throbs through earth's
And mighty waves of single Being roll
From nerveless germ to man, for we are part
Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,
One with the things that prey on us, and one
with what we kill.
From lower cells of waking life we pass
To full perfection ; thus the world grows old :
We who are godlike now were once a mass
Of quivering purple flpcked with bars of gold,
Unsentient or of joy or misery,
And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and
This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn
Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil.
Ay ! and those argent breasts of thine will turn
To water-lilies ; the brown fields men till
Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,
Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in
The boy's first kiss, the hyacinth's first bell.
The man's last passion, and the last red spear
That from the lily leaps, the aspiiodel
Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear
Of too much beauty, and the timid shame
Of the young bridegroom at his lover's eyes,
these with the same
One sacrament are consecrate, the earth
Not we alone hath passions hymeneal.
The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth
At daybreak know a pleasure not less real
Tiian we do, when in some fresh- blossoming
We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel
that life is good.
So when men bury us beneath the yew
Thy crimson-stainkl mouth a rose will be.
And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with
And when the white narcissus wantonly
Kisses the wind its playmate some fiunt joy
Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond
maid and boy.
And thus without life's conscious torturing pain
In some sweet flower we will feel the sun.
And from the linnet's throat will sing again.
And as two gorgeous-mailM snakes will run
Over our graves, or as two tigers creep
Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed
huge lions sleep
And give them battle 1 How my heart leapi up
1 o thmlc of that grand living after death
In besst and bird and flower, when this cup.
Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for
And with the pale leaves ot some autumn day
The soul earths earliest conqueror becomes
earth's last great prey.
O think of it I We shall inform ou.selves
Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun,
The CenUur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves
That leave their dan'ing rings to spite the
Upon the meadows, shall not be more near
Than you and I to nature's mysteries, for we
The thrush's hear* beat, and the daisies grow.
And the wan snowd-op sighing for the sun
On sunless days in winier, we shall know
By whom the silver gossamer is spun,
Who paints the diapered fritillaries.
On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine
the eagle flies.
Ay 1 had we never loved at all, who knows
If yonder daffodil had lured the bee
Into its gilded womb, or any rose
Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree I
Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring.
But for the loversi' lips that kists, the poeti' lips
Is the light vanished from our golden sun,
Or is this dwdal-fashioned earth less fair.
That we are nature's heritors, and one
With every uulse of life that beats the air ?
Rather new siiiis across the sky shall pass,
New sr>Iendour come unto the flower, new glory
to the grass.
And we two lovers shall not sit afar.
Critics of nature, but the joyous sea
Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star
Slioot arrows at our pleasure I We shall be
Part of the mighty universal whole,
And through all aeons mix and mingle with the
Kosmic Soul 1
We shall be notes in that great Symphony
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic
And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be
One with our heart, the stealthy creeping
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die.
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality 1
THE sky is laced with fitful red,
The circling mists and shadows
The duwn is rising from the sea.
Like a white lady from her bed.
And jagged brazen arrows fall
Athwart the feathers of the night.
And a long wave of yellow light
Breaks silently on tower and hall,
And spreading wide across the wold
Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,
And all the chestnut tops are stirred.
And all the branches streaked with gold.
HOW steep the stairs within Kings'
For exile- wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound's tt Lie, — better far
That I liad died in the red ways of war,
Or that tlie gate of Florence bare my head.
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
'Curse God and die: what better hope than
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day ' — •
Nay peace : behind my prison's blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away.
My love, and all the glory of the stars.
THE FOURTH MOVEMENT
IS it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose bright'-it threads are each a wasted
Is it thy will— Love that 1 love so well —
That my Soul's House should be a tortured
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth
Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure.
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within n._, heart.
Perchance it may be better so — at least
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood ot its goodly feast.
Nor waliied where Beauty is a thing unknown.
Many a man hath done so ; sought to fence
I n straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
While all the forest sang of liberty.
Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air.
To where some steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's liair.
Or how the little flower he trod upon.
The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold.
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
Content if once its leaves were aureoled.
But surely it is something to have been
The best beloved for a little wliile.
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.
Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed
On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars.
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the
THE FOURTH MOVEMENT
QUIA MULTUM AMAVI
DEAR Heart, I think the young impas-
When first he takes from out the
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
iiud eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful
Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee.
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.
Ahl hadst thou liked me less and loved me
Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow's heritor,
Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.
Yet, though remorse, youth's white - faced
Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee — think of all
The suns that go to make one speedwell blue !
S often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail.
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come.
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was ts only instrument of song.
So my too stormy passions work me wrong.
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung ;
Else it were better we should part, and go.
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
THE FOURTH MOVEMENT
THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
III his wandering ;
Sit closer love : it was here I trow
I made that vow,
Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved tlie sea.
As long as the sunflower sought the sun, —
It shall be, I said, for eternity
'Twixt you and me !
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love's web is spun.
I^ook upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air.
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.
Ijook upward where the white gull screams.
What does it see that we do not see ?
Is that a star ? or the lamp that j^leams
On some outward voyaging argosy, —
Ah ! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams I
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is noth ing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost.
Will find a harbour in some bay.
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part.
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty, — you your Art,
Nay, do not start.
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
THE FOURTH MOVEMENT
WITHIN this restless, hurried, modem
We look our hearts' ftill pleasure —
You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled.
And spent the lading of our argosy.
Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan.
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow has paled my young mouth's vermilion,
And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.
But all this crowded life has been to thee
No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.
TO sUb my youth with desperate knives,
This paltry age's gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury.
To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,— I
I love it not I these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea.
Less than the thistledown of summer air
Which hath no seed : better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in.
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of
IT it full winter now : the trees are b«re,
Save where the cattle huddle from the
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The Autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as
though it blew
From Saturn's cave ; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragfred the sweet pillage of a summer's day
From the low meadows up the narrow lane ;
Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
Press close against the hurdles, and the shiver-
ing house-dogs creep
From the shut stable to the frozen stream
And back again disconsolate, and miss
The bawling shepherds and the noisy team ;
And overhead in circling listlessness
The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack.
Or crowd the dripping boughs ; and in the fen
the ice-pools crack
Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
And flaps his wings, and stretches back his
And hoots to see the moon ; across the meads
Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
And a stray searnew with its fretful cry
Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the
dull irrey sky.
Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings
His load of faggots from the chilly byre.
And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
The sappy billets on the waning fire,
And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
His child! -n at their play ; and yet,— the Spring
is in the air.
Already the slim crocus stirs the snow.
And soon yon blanched fields will bloom
With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow.
For with the first warm kisses of the rain '
The winter's icy sorrow breaks to tears,
And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright
eyes the rabbit peers
From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie.
And treads one snowdrop under foot, and
Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
Across our path at evening, and the suns
Stay longer with us ; ah t how good to see
Grass-girdled Spring in all her jiy of laughing
Dance through the hedges til'. V<i wMy rose,
(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar I)
Burst from its sheathed emerald and disclose
The little quivering disk of golden fire
^Vhich the bees know so well, for with it come
I'ale boy's-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadiUies all
Then up and down the field the sower goes,
While close behind the laughing you'nker
With shrilly whoop the black and thievish
And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears.
And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered
Steal from the bluebells' nodding carillons
Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons
With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
And woodland enipery, and when the lingering
rose hath shed
Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes.
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise.
And violets getting overbold withdraw
From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot
the leafless haw.
O happy field 1 and O thrice happy tree !
Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea.
Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
Through the green leaves will float the hum of
murmuring bees at noon.
Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour.
The flower which wantons love, and those
Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind.
And straggling traveller's-joy each hedge with
yellow stars will bind.
Dear Bride of T^ature and most bounteous
That canst give increase to the sweet-breath 'd
And to the kid its little horns, and bring
The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried
There was a time when any common bird
Could make me sing in unison, a time
When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
To quick response or more melodious rhyme
By every forest idyll ;— do I change ?
Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair
pleasaunce range ?
Nay, nay, thou art the same: 'tis I who seek
To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
Would have thee weep with me ni brother-
Fool ! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
To taint such wine with the salt poison of his
own despair !
Thou art the same : 't is I whose wretched soul
Takes discontent to be its paramour.
And gives its kingdom to the rude control
Of what should be its servitor, — for sure
Wisdom is somewhere, though the stonny ses
Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ' 'Tis
not in me.'
To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect
In natural honour, not to bend the knee
In profitless prostrations whose effect
Is by itself condemned, what alchemy
Can teach me this ? what herb Medea brewed
Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not
The minor chord which ends the harmony.
And for its answering brother waits in vain
Sobbing for incompleted melody.
Dies a Swan's death ; but I the heir of pain,
A silent Memnon with blank lid-less eyes.
Wait for the light and music of those suns
which never rise.
The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-
The little dust stored in the narrow urn,
The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,—
Were not these better far than to return
To my old fitful restless malady.
Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of
Nay I for perchance that poppy-crownM God
Is like the watcher by a sick man's bed
Who talks of sleep but gives it not ; his rod
Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,
Death is too rude, too obvious a key
To solve one single secret in a life's philosophy.
And Love I that noble madness, whose august
And inextinguishable might can slay
The soul with honeyed drugs, — alas 1 I must
From such sweet ruin play the runaway.
Although too constant memory never can
Forget the arched splendour of those brows
Which for a little season made my youth
So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence
That all the chiding of more prudent Truth
Seemed the thin voice of jealousy, — O Hence
Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis I
Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too
My lips have drunk enough, — no more, no
Though Love himself should turn his gilded
Back to the troubled waters of this shore
Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now
The chariot 'vheels of passion sweep too near,
Hence ! Hence I I pass unto a life nr.ore barren,
More barren — ay, those arms will never lean
Down through the trellised vines and draw
In sweet reluctance through the tangled green ;
Some other head must wear that aureole.
For I am Hers who loves not any man
Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign
Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page.
And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair.
With net and spear and hunting equipage
Let young Adunis to his tryst repair.
But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell
Delights no more, though I could win her
Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy
Who from M<iiint Ida saw the little cloud
Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy
And knew the coming of the Queen, and
In wonder at her feet, not for the sake
Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple
Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed I
And, if my lips be music-less, inspire
At least my life : was not thy glory hymned
By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre
Like vEschylos at well-fought Marathon,
And died to show that Milton's England stiU
could bear a sor I
And yet I cannot tread the Portico
And live without desire, fear and pain.
Or nurture that wise calm which long ago
The grave Athenian master taught to men,
belf-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted.
To watch the world's vain phantasies go by with
Alas 1 that serene brow, those eloquent lips.
Those eyes that mirrored all eternity.
Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse
Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne
Is childless ; in the night which she had made
For lofty secure flight Athena's owl itself hath
Nor much with Science do I care to cUmb,
Although by strange and subtle witcher^
She draw the moon from heaven : the Muse of
Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry
, C ,i: i
To no less eager eyes ; often indeed
In the great epic of Polymnia's scroll I love to
How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war
Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,
White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea
Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Ther-
Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,
And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival I
And stood amazed at such hardihood.
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore.
And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept
at midnight o'er
Some unfrequented lieight, and coming down
The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the
Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him
In the small bay at Salamis, — and yet, the page
Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel
With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much : for like the Dial's wheel
'"hat from its blinded darkness strikes
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes
Restlessly follow that whiuh from my cheated
O for one grand unselfish simple life
To teach us what is Wisdom I
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife
Shunned your untroubled crags and crystel
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly
Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own
Speak ye Rydalian laurels 1 where is He
Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty
Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty
Where Love and Duty mingle ! Him at least
The most high Laws were glad of. He had sat
at Wisdom's feast,
But we are Learning's changelings, know by rote
The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which
The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man
Shall scale the august ancient heights and to
old Reverence bow ?
One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod I
Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,
And whose un-risen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giottos
Thou marble lily of the lily town i let not tlie lour
Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or
The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O'er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror
Clomb tiie high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty
Walked like a Bride beside him, at which sight
Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell
With an old man who grabbled rusty keys.
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell
With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,
As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir
He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome.
He drave the base wolf from the lions lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome
^^'hit■h overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi— O Melpomene
Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy
sweetest threnody I
Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies
That Joy s self may grow jealous, and the Nine
l-orget awhile their discreet emperies,
Mourning for him who on Rome's lordliest
Lit for men's lives the light of Marathon,
And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the
O guard him, guard him weU, my Giotto's
Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower
Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide.
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies
Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of
Some mighty orb whose cycled wandering!,
Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and tlie wings
Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away
Into a moonless void,— and yet, though he is
dust and clay.
He is not dead, the immemorial Fates
Forbid it, and the closing shears retrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates 1
Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain 1
For the vile thing he hated lurks within
Its sombre liouse, alone with God and memories
Still what avails i', that she sought her cave
That murderous mother of red liarlotries ?
At Munich on the marble architrave
The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash ^Egina firet in loneliness
Not mirroring their beauty, so our lives grow
For lack of our ideals, if one star
Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war
Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust
Which WM Mazzini once I rich Niobe
For mil her stony sorrows hath her sons, but
What Easter Day shall make her children rise.
Who were not Gods yet suffered ? what sure
Shall find their grave-clothes folded ? what clear
Shall see them bodily ? O it were meet
To roll the stone from off the sepulchre
And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in
love of Her
Oiir Italy 1 our mother visible 1
Most blessed among nations and most sad.
For whose dear sake the young Calabriari fell
That day at Aspromontf and was glad
That in an age when God was bought and sold
One man could die for Liberty I but we, burnt
out and cold.
See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves
Bind the sweet feet of Mercy : Poverty
Creei" tho i^h our sunless lanes and with sharp
Cuts tiic tvaini throats of . hildren stealthily.
And no word said : — O we are wretched men
Unworthy of our great inheritance ! where is
Of austere Milton ? where the mighty sword
Which slew its master righteously ? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word
Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears :
While as a ruined mother in some spasm
Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best
Genders unlawful children. Anarchy
Freedom's own Judas, the vile prodigal
Licence who steals the gold of Liberty
And yet has nothing. Ignorance the real
One Fratricide since Cain, Envy the asp
That stings itself to anguish. Avarice whose
Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed
For whose dull appetite men waste away
Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed
Of things which slay their sower, these each
Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet
Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each
What even Cromwell spared is desecrated
By weed and worm, left to the stormy play
Of wind and beating snow, or renovated
By more destructful hands: Time's worst
Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,
But these new Vandals can but make
Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing
Through Lincoln's lofty choir, till the air
Seems from such marble harmonies to ring
With sweeter song than common lips can dare
To draw from actual reed ? ah 1 where is now
The cunning hand which made the flowering
hawthorn branches bow
For Southwell's arch, and carved the House of
Who loved the lilies of the field with all
Our dearest English flowers ? the saine sun
Rises for us : the seasons natural
Weave tiie same tapestry of green and grey :
The unchanged hills are with us : but that Spirit
hath passed away.
And yet perchance it may be better so,
For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,
Murder her brother is her bedfellow.
And the Plague chambers with her
And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set ;
Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate I
For gentle brotherhood, the hannony
Of living in the healtl ful air, the swift
Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free
And women chaste, these are the things
Our souls up more than even Agnolo's
Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o'er the scroll of
Or Titian's little maiden on the stair
White as her own sweet lily and as tall.
Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—
Ah ! somehow life is bigger after all
Than any painted Angel, could we see
The God that is within usl The old Greek
Which curbs the passion of that level line
Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes
And chastened limbs ride round Athena's shrine
And mirror her divine economies.
And balanced symmetry of what in man
Would else wage ceaseless warfare,— this at
least within the span
Between our mother's kisses and the grave
Might so inform our lives, that we could win
Such mighty empires that from her cave
Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin
Would walk ashamed of his adulteries.
And Passion creep from out the House of Lust
with startled eyes.
To make the Body and the Spirit one
With all right things, till no thing live in
From mom to noon, but in sweet unison
^ With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain
The Soul in flawless essence high enthroned,
Against all outer vain attack invincibly bas-
Mark with serene impartiality
The strife of things, and yet be comforted.
Knowing that by the chain causality
All separate existences are wed
Into one supreme whole, whose utterance
Is joy, or holier praise I ah I surely this were
Of Life in most august omnipresence.
Through which the rational intellect would
In passion its expression, and mere sense,
Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,
And being joined with it in harmony
More mystical than that which binds the stars
Strike from their several tones one octave chord
Whose cadence being measureless would fty
Through all the circling spheres, then to its
Return refreshed with iU new empenr
And more exultant power.-this indeed
Could we but reach it were to find the last, the
Ah 1 it was easy when the worid was young
To keep one's life free and inviolate,
From our sad lips another song is rung.
By our -wn hands our heads are desecrate.
Wanderer . in drear exiie, and dispossessed
Of what should be our own. we can but feed on
Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has
flown, , J u
And of all men we are most wretched who
Must live each other's lives and not our own
For very pity's sake and then undo
All that we lived for— it was otherwise
When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic
But we have left those gentle haunts to pass
With weary feet to the new Calvary,
Where we behold, as one who in a glass
Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,
And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze
Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of
man can raise.
O smitten mouth 1 O forehead crowned with
O chalice of all common miseries !
Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast
An agony of endless centuries.
And we were vain and ignorant nor knew
That when we sUbbed thy heart it was our own
real hearts we slew.
Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds.
The night that covers and the lights that
The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds.
The lips betraying and the life betrayed ;
The deep hath calm : the moon hath rest : but
Lords of the natural world are yet our own
Is this the end of all that primal force
Which, in its changes being still the same,
From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,
Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks
Till the suns met in heaven and began
Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and
the Word was Man !
Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though
The bloody sweat falls from our brows like
Loosen the nails— we shall come down I know.
Staunch the red wounds— we shall be whole
No need have we of hyssop-laden rod.
That which is purely human, that is todUKe,
that is God.
SWEET, I blame you not, for mine the
fault was, had I not been made of
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.
From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song.
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.
Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed.
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.
I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine.
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.
And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.
I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre's strings are ever strung.
Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine.
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.
And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove.
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love.
Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart.
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part
For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerwor: of truth.
And no hand can gather up the faUen withered
petals of the rose of youth.
Yet I mm not sorry th«t I loved you— »h I wh*t
else had I a boy to do, —
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.
Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past.
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.
And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
the blind worm battens on the root,
x\nd Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
Passion bears no fruit
Ah 1 what else had I to do but love you, God's
own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytherwan rising like an
argent lily from the sea.
I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better
than the poet's crown of bays.
FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER
IN the glad spring time when leaves were
O merrily 1 he throstle sings 1
I sought, amid the tangled sheen.
Love whom mine eyes had n ver seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings I
Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings !
My love Sist came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings I
The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings 1
O Love too great for lip or lyre.
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings I
But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings I
My love is dead : ah I well-a-day.
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings I
Ah, Love 1 ah, Love ! that thou wert slain—
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again 1
wov, auMvov tan, ro
OWELL for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain.
Nor heeds the splashing of the rain.
The crashing down of forest trees.
O well for him who ne'er hath known
The travail of the hungry years,
A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.
But well for him whose foot hath trod
The weary road of toil and strife.
Yet from the sorrows of his life
Builds ladders to be nearer God.
THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE
. . . ovayKcucttf S' ^ei
Kiu, Tov ixh) cTifai Tov Sj /ti;.
THOU knowest all ; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow v/ith seed —
The land is Mock with briar and
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all ; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fiiil,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all ; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.
vtiu<r<rwfi,<u ye ftiv ovSa*
kWciv OS w $di^ai, Pporav koX jroT/iOK im<nrg,
Tovro w Kol yifuK olov oCl^vpoiai fiporouri,
Ktipa<r0<u re (td/tijv ^SoX^ew r diro 8a.Kpv vapamv.
THERE is no peace beneath the noon.
Ah ! in those meadows is there peace
Where, girdled with a silver fleece,
As a bright shepherd, strays the moon ?
Queen of the gardens of the sky,
Where stars like lilies, white and fair,
Shiue through the mists of frosty air.
Oh, tarry, for the dawn is nigh I
Oh, tarry, for the envious day
Stretches long hands to catch thy feet
Alas I but thou art over-fleet,
Alas 1 I know thou wilt not stay.
Up sprang the sun to run his race.
The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea •
But in the west I seemed to see
The likeness of a human face.
A linnet on the hawthorn spray
Sang of the glories of the spring,
And made the flow'ring copses ring
With gladness for the new-born day.
A lark from out the grass I trod
Flew wildly, and was lost to view
In the great seamless veil of blue
That hangs before the face of God.
The willow whispered overhead
Tliat death is but a newer life,
And that with idle words of strife
We bring dishonour on the dead.
I took a branch from oflF the tree.
And hawthorn-blossoms drenched with dew,
I bound them with a sprig of yew,
And made a garland fair to see.
I laid the flowers where He lies,
(Warm leaves and flowers on the stone) ;
What joy I had to sit alone
Till evening broke on tired eyes :
Till all the shifting clouds had spun
A robe of gold for God to wear,
And into seas of purple air
Sank the bright galley of the sun.
Shall I be gladdened for the day.
And let my inner heart be stirred
By murmuring tree or song of bird.
And sorrow at the wild wind's play ?
Not so : such idle dreams belong
To souls of lesser depth than mine ;
I feel that I am half divine;
I know that I am great and strong.
I know that every forest tree
By labour rises from the root ;
I know that none shall gather fruit
By sailing on the barren sea.
(from a picture painted by miss v. t.)
A FAIR slim boy not made for this world's
With hair of gold thick clustering
round his ears.
And longing eyes half veiled by foolish tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain ;
Pale cheeks whereon no kiss hath left its stain.
Red under-lip drawn in for fear of Love,
And white throat whiter than the breast of
Alas ! alas I if all should be in vain.
Com-fields behind, and reapers all a-row
In weariest labour toiling wearily.
To no sweet sound of laughter or of lute.
And careless of the crimson sunset glow.
The boy still dreams ; nor knows that night is
And in the night-time no man gathers fruit
THE lily's withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold.
And from the beech-trees on the
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk.
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter, — hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass :
The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.
A WHITE mist drifts across the shrouds,
A wild moon in this wintry sky
Gleams like an angry lion's eye
Out of a mane of tawny clouds.
The muffled steersman at the wheel
Is but a shadow in the gloom ; —
And in the throbbing engine room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.
The shattered storm has left its trace
Upon this huge and heaving dome.
For the thin threads of yellow foam
Float on the waves like ravelled lace.
UNDER THE BALCONY
O BEAUTIFUL star with the crinuon
O moon with the brows of gold I
Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south I
And light for my love her way.
Lest her little feet should stray
On the windy hill and the wold 1
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth !
O moon with the brows of gold !
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea !
O ship with the wet, white sail 1
Put in, put in, to the port to me I
For my love and I would go
To the land where the daffodils blow
In the heart of a violet dale I
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea 1
O ship with the wet, white sail !
O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note 1
O bird that sings on the spray I
Sing on, sing on, from your solt brown throat I
And my love in her little bed
Will listen, and liit her head
From the pillow, and come my way i
O rapturous bird with the low, tweet note I
O bird that sits on the spray 1
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air I
O blossom with lips of snow I
Come down, come down, for my love to wear I
You will die on her head in a crown,
You will ' . ; in a fold of her gown.
To her little ight heart you will got
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air I
O blossom with lips of snow I
THE HARLOT'S HOUSE
WE caught the tread of diiiicing feet,
We loitered down tlic .noonlit
And stopped beneath the harlots house.
Inside, above the din and fmy.
We heard the loud ntiusicim s pluv
The ' Treues Liebes Herz ' of Sirauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques.
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin.
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons.
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
They tool; each other by the hand.
And danced a stately saraband ;
Their laughter echoed thin and shriU.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast.
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a honible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live tiling.
Then, turning to iny love, I said,
' The dead are dancing with the dead.
The dust is whirling with the dust.'
But she— she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in :
Love passed into the house of lust
Then suddenly the tune went false.
The dancers wearied of the waltz
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girL
LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES
THIS winter air is keen and cold.
And keen and cold this winter sun.
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride.
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square.
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band —
And, tiny hand on tiny hand.
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah I cruel tree I if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I v;ouId break
Into spring blossoms white and blue I
ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF
KEATS' LOVE LETTERS
THESE are the letters which Endymion
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay 1 for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price. I think they love not
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the gaiments of a wretched man.
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe ?
THE NEW REMORSE
THE sin was mine ; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer du}( herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore ?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder !) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the
It is thy new-found I^ord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth.
And I shall weep and worship, as before.
Iff II ,1
TNDER the rose-tree's dancing shade
L! There stands a little ivory girl,
^ Fulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.
The red leaves fall upon the mould.
The white leaves flutter, one by one,
Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
The white leaves float upon the air.
The red leaves flutter idly down.
Some fall upon her yellow gown,
And some upon her raven hair.
She takes an amber lute and sings.
And as she sings a silver crane
Begins his scarlet neck to strain,
And flap his burnished metal wings.
She takes a lute of amber bright,
And from the thicket where he lies
Her lover, with his almond eyes.
Watches her movements in delight.
And now she gives a cry of fear.
And tiny tears begin to start :
A thorn has wounded with its dart
The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
And now she laughs a merry note :
There has fallen a petal of the rose
Just where the yellow satin shows
The blue-veined flower of her throat.
With pale green nails of polisiied jade.
Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,
There stands a little ivory girl
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade.
AGAINST tliase turbid turquoise skies
^A The light and luminous balloons
■^ -^ Dip and drift like satin moons.
Drift like silken butterflies ;
Reel with every windy gust,
Rise and reel like dancing girls,
Float like strange transparent pearls,
Fall and float like silver dust.
Now to the low leaves they cling.
Each with coy fantastic pose.
Each a petal of a rose
Straining at a gossamer string.
Then to the tall trees they climb.
Like thin globes of amethyst.
Wandering opals keeping tryst
With the rubies of the lime.
I HAVE no store
Of gryphon-jruarded gold ;
Now, as before.
Bare is the shepherd's fold.
Rubies, nor pearls.
Have I to gem thy throat;
Yet woodland girls
Have loved the shepherd's note.
Then, pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee.
For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.
What dost thou fear ?
Young Hyacinth is slain.
Pa 1 is not here.
And will not come again.
No homfed Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
No God at dawn
Steals through the olive trees.
Hylas is dead,
Nor will h« e'er divine
Those '.ttie red
Rose-p'^ "iled lips of thine.
On the high hill
No ivory dryads play.
Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.
SYMPHONY IN YELLOW
AN omnibus across the bridge
l^L Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
^ -^ And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moved against the shadowy wharf.
And, like a yellow silken scarf.
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms.
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
IN THE FOREST
OUT of the mid-wood's twilight
Into the meadow's dawn.
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun I
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along.
And I know not which I should follow.
Shadow or song 1
O Hunter, saiare me his shadow I
Nightingale, catch me his strain !
Else moonstruck with music and madness
1 track him in vain 1
TO MY WIFE
WITH A COPY OF MY POF.M8
CAN write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay ;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it setUes
On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.
MIOOCOfY HSOWTION TBT CHAM
(ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2|
A APPLIED IhZ/IGE Inc
^^ 1653 Eost Wain Street
S'd^ Rochester, N«> Yo'ti ue09 USA
^S !^'6) *82 - OJOO - Phone
^S (7tE) 288 ~ 5989 - Fo>
WITH A COPY OF 'A HOUSE OF
POM EGRANATES '
GO, little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl :
And bid him look
Into thy pages : it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through
O GOAT-FOOT God of Arcady I
This modem world is grey and
And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady I
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold.
And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helic£,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-dad wold.
And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot Gk)d of Arcady I
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modem world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady I
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way.
This modem world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady 1
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modem world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free.
And give thine oaten pipe away.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modem world hath need of thee!
TO L. L.
COULD we dig up this long-buried
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again.
Were it worth the pain !
I remember we used t>. leet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;
And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;
And your eyes, they wei« green and grey
Like an April day.
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed ;
And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.
You were always afraid of s shower.
Just like a flower :
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.
I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet.
Little wings to your feet
1 remember your hair — did I tie it ?
For it always ran • lot —
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold :
These things are old.
I remember so well the room.
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain ;
And the colour of your gown.
It was amber-brown.
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.
TO L. L.
And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face
Had a small tear left a stain f
Or was it the rain ?
On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,
' You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife 1)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.
Could we live it over again.
Were it worth the pain.
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead !
Well, if my heart must break.
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know.
Poets' hearts break so.
But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and helL
THE seasons send their ruin as they go.
For in the spring the narciss shows its
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red.
And in the autumn purple violets blow.
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.
But what of life whosf> bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that bum
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.
CHORUS OF CLOUD MAIDENS
('Apurnimnn N'.^Aai, S7S-S90, 898 SIS.)
CLOUD MAIDENS that float on
Dew-sprinkled, fleet bodies, and
Let us rise from our Sire's loud river
Great Ocean, and soar throuKh the air
To the peak, of the pine-covered' inounUins
"'here the pines hang as tresses of hair.
WK '" l*"" watch-towers undaunted,
abound '^ *e"->^«tered corn-fields
A A .J^^ "'?"*'"' °^ *''*' sea-waves resound •
And the sun m the sky never wearies of spread-
ing Ins radiance around.
Let us cast off the haze
Of the mists from our band,
Till with far-seeing gaze
We may look on the land.
Cloud maidens that bring the rain-shower.
To the I'ailas- loved land let us wing,
To the land of stout heroes and Power,
Where Kekrops was hero and king,
Where honour and silence is given
To the mysteries that none may declare.
Where are gifts to the high gods in heaven
When the house of the gmls is laid bare,
Where are lofty roofed temples, and statues
well carven and fair ;
Where are feasts to the happy immortals
When the sacred procession draws near.
Where garlands make bright the bright
At all seasons and months in the year ;
And when spring days are here.
Then we tread to the wine-god a measure,
In Bacchanal dance and in pleasure,
'Mid the contests of sweet singing choirs.
And the crash of loud lyres.
(Ettr. Hte., 44t.4SS)
Sonj mnp I y captive women of Tro, ou the tea bM.k ..
AulU, whllL tbe Achmiu were ther, ..™^», i j . '
<h. .»>!. * ji 1. ^^ , "*"* *""* itorm-bound through
1.L . u^ dithonoured Achille., „d waitin, for , fS
wind to bring them home. * ™'
OFAIR win„ oiox. ing from the sea I
Who through the dark and mist
The ships that on the billowsi ie
Unto what land, ah, misery I
Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave.
Or to whose house a purchased slave J
O sea-wind blowing fair and fast
Is If unto the Dorian strand,
Or to those far and fable shores.
Where great Apidanus outpours
His streams upon the fertile land
Or shall I tread the Phthian sand
Borne by the swift breath of the blast ?
I, ' 1
O blowing wind I you bring my sorrow near.
For surely borne with splashing of the oar.
And hidden in some galley-prison drear
I shall be led unto that distant shore
Where the tall palm-tree first took root,
With clustering laurel leaves, a pleasant
For Leto when with travail great she bore
A god and goddess in Love's bitter fight,
Her body's anguish, and her soul's delight
It may be in Delos,
Encircled of seas,
I shall sing with some maids
From the Cyclades,
Of Artemis goddess
And queen and maiden.
Sing of the gold
In her hair heavy-laden.
Sing of her hunting,
Her arrows and bow.
And in singing find solace
From weeping and woe.
Or it may be my bitter doom
To stand a handmaid at the loom.
In distant Athens of supreme renown ;
And weave some wondrous tapestry,
Or work in bright embroidery,
Upon the crocus-flowered robe and saffron-
The flying horses wrought in gold,
1 he silver chariot onward rolled
1 hat bears Athena through the Town •
Or the warring giants that strove to 'climb
From earth to heaven to reign as kings.
And iSeus the conquering son of Time
A A ?K T u" *.''*' h^^cone's eagle wings ;
And the hghtnmg flame and the bolts thai fell
AnnT f^%T" ^'?'' '* ^^^ g"'''" behest.
And hur ed the rebels to darkness of hell.
To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest
Alas I our children's sorrow, and their pain
Alas i our warrior sires nobly slain
Alas I our country's glory, and the name
Of Troy's fair town ;
By the lances and tne fighting and the flame
Tall Troy is down.
I shall pass with my soul over-laden.
To a land far away and unseen.
For Asia is slave and handnnaiden,
Europa is Mistress and Queen.
Without love, or love's holiest treasure,
I shall pass into Hades abhorred.
To the grave as my chamber of pleasure.
To death as my Lover and Lord.
A FRAGMENT FROM THE
AGAMEMNON OF ^SCHYLOS
(Linn 1 140-1 173)
[The Kene 1. the court-y.rd of the Pid.ce .t A«oc
Clytemne.t» h« followed clo« on hi. heel.. C««,i„ i.
.nd the burden of prophecy lie he.vy upon her; terrible
..Km »d vi.io„, greet her .ppro«h. She"^. bl,^ „ "^
from the door The gho.t. of the murdered children come
to mourn with her. Her «co„d .ight pierce. thTp^J^
wall. ; .he .ee. the f.t.l b.th, the tr.mmelling net. .ndtiS^
«e .h.rpened for her own rain «,d her lord".
But not eren in the hour of her U.t ««u«h i> AdoUo
merciful; her warning, .re unheeded, herTophe«c «^
Mce. made mock of. F"="= mm-
The orche.tr. i. filled with . choru. of old men wfk
fiH,l.,h, irre.oh.te. They do not believe the weird :Lr^f
mytenr t.11 the hour for help i. p..t, „d the cry 7tZ
memnon echoe. from the hou^Voh mel I ^ 'LZ^
with ..troke of death.'] .mciten
THY prophecies are but a lying tale,
For cruel gods have brought thee to
And of thyself and thine own wretched fate
Sing you this song and tliese unhallowed lays.
Like the brown bird of grief insatiate
Crying for sorrow of its dreary days ;
Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale —
The nightingale ! The nightingale !
Yet I would that to me they had given
The fate of that singer so clear.
Fleet wings to fly up unto heaven.
Away from all mourning and fear;
For ruin and sl/irighter await me — ^the cleav-
ing with sword and the spear.
Whence come these crowding fancies on thy
Sent by some god it may be, yet for naught?
Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain.
Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain
With shrill, sad cries, as if by ueath dis-
Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy.
Where, upon either hand,
Landmarks for ever stand
With horrid legend for all men to see t
O bitter bridegroom who didst bear
Rum to those that loved thee true I
O holy stream Scamander, where
With gentle nurturement I grew
In the first days, when life and love were new.
"^ T^ *r7Tl "T-'* *•*"" *"t I must lie
In the dark land that never sees the sun :
bing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy
By the black stream Cokytos that doth run
Through long. low hills of dreary Acheron
Ah, but thy word is clear I
Even a child among men.
Even a child might see
What is lying hidden here.
Ah ! I am smitten deep
To the heart with a deadly blow
At the evil fate of the maid,
A I the cry of her song of woe I
Sorrows for her to bear 1
Wonders for me to hear!
O my poor land laid waste with flame and fire I
O ruined city overthrown by fate 1
Ah, what availed the offerings of my Sire
To keep the foreign foemen from the gate I
Ah, what availed the herds of pasturing kine
To save my country from the wrath divine 1
Ah, neither prayer nor priest avails aught.
Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought.
For the tall town lies desolate and low.
And I, the singer of this song of woe,
Know, by the fire burning in my brain.
That Death, the healer of all earthly pain.
Is close at hand 1 I will not shirk the blow.
SEN ARTYSTY; OR, THE
FROM THE POLISH OF MADAME HELENA MODJESKA
I TOO have had my dreams: ay, known
The crowded visions of a fiery youth
VVhieli haunt me still.
,„. , . Methought that once I lay
Within some garden close, what time the Spring
Breaks like a bird from Winter, and tlie sky
Is sapphire-vaulted. The pure air was soft.
And tlie deep grass I lay on soft as air.
The strange and secret life of the young trees
Swelled in the green and tender bark, or burst
To buds of sheathM emerald; violets
Peered from their nooks of hiding, half afraid
Of their own loveliness; the vermeil rose
Opened its heart, and the bright sUr-flower
Shone like a star of morning. Butterflies,
In painted liveries of brown and gold.
Took the shy bluebells as their pavilions
And seats of pleasaunce ; overhead a bird
Made snow of all the blossoms as it flew
To charm the woods with singing: the whole
Seemed waking to delight I
And yet — and yet —
My soul was filled with leaden heaviness :
I had no joy in Nature ; what to me,
Ambition's slave, was crimson-stained rose
Or the gold-sceptred crocus ? The bright bird
Sang out of tune for me, and the sweet flowers
Seemed but a pageant, and an unreal show
That mocked mv heart ; for, like the fabled snak^
That stings itself to anguish, so I lay
The day crept
Unheeded on the dial till the sun
Dropt, purple-sailed, into the gorgeous East,
When, from the fiery heart of that great orb.
Came One whose shape of beauty far outshone
The most bright vision of this common earth.
Girt was she in a robe more white than flame
Or furnace-heated brass ; upon her head
She bare a laurel crown, and, like a star
That falls from the high heaven suddenly,
Passed to my side.
Then kneeling low, I cried
• O much-desired 1 O long-waited for 1
Immortal Glory I Great world-conqueror I
Oil, let me not die crownless ; once, at least,
Let thine impeml laurels bind my browi.
Ignoble else. Once let the clarion note
And trump of loud ambition sound my name.
And for the rest 1 care not.'
T„ ., Then to me,
.^1??!? * ''°""'' ^^^ '"'8^^ """le reply :
Ch. d. Ignorant of the true happiness.
For li "h7'"5 1'^"'" ^' ^''"^°'"' t*'^" '^ert made
for light and love and laughter, not to waste
1 hy youth m shooting arrows at the sun.
Ornurtunng that ambition in thy soul
Whose deadly poison will infect thy heart.
Marnng all joy and gladn«ss ! Tarry here
In the sweet confines of this garden-close
Whose level meads and glades delectable
Invite for pleasure; the wild bird that wakes
These silent dells with sudden melody
bWs**"^ P'^yn'te; and each flower that
Shall twine itself unbidden in thy hair-
Garland more meet for thee than the dread
Of Glory's laurel wreath."
T -. • J . ,. ' Ah I fruitless gifls,'
I cried, unheeding of her prudent word
•Are all such mortal flowers, whose brief lives
Are bounded by the dawn and setting sun.
The anger of the noon can wound the rose.
And the rain rob the crocus of its gold :
But thine immortal coronal of Fame,
Thy crown of deathless laurel, this alone
Age cannot harm, nor winter's icy tooth
Pierce to its hurt, nor common things profane.'
No answer made the angel, but her face
Dimmed with the mists of pity.
That from mine eyes, wherein ambition's torch
Burned with its latest and most ardent flame,
Flasht-d forth two level beams of straitened
Beneath whose Ailgent fires the laurel crown
Twisted and curled, as when the Sirian star
Withers the ripening com, and one pale leaf
Fell on my brow ; and I leapt up iind felt
The nighty pulse of Fame, and heard far off
The sound of many nations praising me I
>e fiery-coloured moment of great life I
And then — how barren was the nations' praise !
How vain the trump of Glory 1 Bitter thorns
Were in that laurel leaf, whose toothM barbs
Burned and bit deep till fire and red flame
Seemed to feed full upon my brain, and make
The garden a bare desert
With wild hands
1 strove to tear it from my bleeding brow.
But all in vain ; and with a dolorous cry
That paled the lingering stars before their time,
I waked .t 1.8t, .nd uw the tlmoroui dawn
And would h.ve deemed it . mere idle^m
But for this restless pain that gnaws my W
And the mi wound, of thom. upon my b™^
THE SPHINX U the eopgright of
Mr. John Lane, Ay wkon courla^
UUauhulidin lUt editim.
N a dim comer of my room for lonirer than
my fancy thinks ngeruian
me through the sliifting gloom.
Red foUows grey across the air the waves of
moonhght ebb and flow
^"* It?" °?° "''" "^""^ "°* «« ">d in the
night-time she is there,
°Tiuh: whiuT ""' '''«''*'' ^^ °'«^ -d
an tne while this cunous cat
Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of
satin rimmed with gold. ^
Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the
tawny throat of her
Flutters the soft and sUky fur or ripples to her
pointed ears. ^^ "
Come forth, my lovely seneschal ! so somnolent,
so statuesque I
Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half
woman and half animal !
Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx 1 and
put your head upon my knee 1
And let me stroke your throat and see your
body spotted like the Lynx 1
And let me touch those curving claws of yellow
ivory and grasp
The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round
your heavy velvet paws I
A THOUSAND we«y centuries a« thine
while I have hardly seen
Some twenty summers cast their green
for Autumn's gaudy liveries.
And did you watch the EirvDtian m^lt K- •
for Antony '^SYV^m melt her umon
^"'her'Sad*'' •'*r'-''"">''en wine and bend
ner head m -imic awe
And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear
the moon- homed lo weep ?
And know the painted kings who sleep beneath
the wedge-shaped Pyramid ?
IFT up your large black satin eyes which
are like cushions where one sinks !
Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx 1 and
sing me all your memories !
Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered
with the Holy Child,
And how you led them through the wild, and
how they slept beneath your shade.
Sing to me of that odorous green eve when
couchmg by the marge
You heard from Adrians gilded barge the
laughter of Antinous k «
And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and
watched with hot and hungry store
The ivory body of that rare young slave with
his pomegranate mouth I
Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-
formed bull was stalled !
Sing to me of the night you crawled across the
temple s granite plinth
When tfuougL uie purple corridors the scream-
ing scarlet Ibis flew
In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the
And the great torpid crocodile within the tank
shed sUmy tears,
And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered
back into the Nile,
And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as
in your claws you seized their snake
And crept away with it to slake your passion by
the shuddering palms.
HO were your lovers? who were they
who wrestled for you in the dust ?
i^t.V' ^^^ ^^''^^ °*' y^'^r Lust?
What Leman had you. every day ?
Did pant Lizards come and crouch before you
on the reedy banks ?
Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on
you m your trampled couch ?
Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward
you m the mist ? *
Did gUt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with
passion as you passed them by ?
With feariul heads and fearful flame to breed
new wonders from your womb ?
R had you shameful secret quests and did
you harry to your home
Some Nereid coiled in amber foam
with curious rock crystal breasts ?
Or did you treading through the froth call to
the brown Sidonian
For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or Be-
Or did you when the sun was set climb up the
To meet your swarthy Etiiiop whose body was
cf polished jet ?
Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped
down the grey Nilotic flats
At twilight and the flickering bats flew round
the temple's triple glyphs
Steal to the border of the b^r and swim across
the silent lake
And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid
•nil from each black sarcophagus rose up the
painted swathed dead ?
Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-homed
Or did you love the god of flies who plagued
the Hebrews and was splashed
With wine unto the waist ? or Pasht, who had
green beryls for her eyes ?
Or that young god. the Tyrian. who was more
amorous than the dove
Of Ashtaroth ? or did you love the god of the
Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose
higli above his hawk-faced head
Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with
Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and
lay before your feet
Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honev-
coloured nenuphar ?
OW lubtle-secret ia your smile t Did
you love none then ? Nay, I know
Great Ammon was your bedfellow I
He lay with you beside the Nile 1
The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when
they saw him come
Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared
with spikenard and with thyme.
He came along the river bank like some tall
He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty,
and the waters sank.
He strode across the desert sand: he reached
the valley where you lay :
He waited till the dawn of day : then tcached
your black breasts with his hand.
lou kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:
you made the horned god your own :
You stood behind him on his throne : you called
him by his secret name.
You whispered monstrous oredes into the
caverns of his ears :
With blood of goats and blood of steers you
taught him monstrous miracles.
White Ammon was your bedfellow I Your
chamber was the steaming Nile I
And with your curved archaic smile you watched
hjs passion come and go.
ITH Syrian oilt his brows were briglit:
and wide-spread as a tent at noon
His marble limbs made pale the moon
and lent the day a larger light.
His long hair was nine cubits' span and coloured
like that yellow gem
Which hidden in their garment's hem the
merchants bring from Kurdistan.
His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of
new-made wine :
The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure
of his eyes.
His thick soft throat was white as milk and
threaded with the veins of blue :
And curious pearls like frozen dew were
broidered on his flowing silk.
N pcftrl uid porphyry pedestalled he wm
too bright to look upon :
For on his ivory breast there shone the
That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of
the Colchian caves
Had found beneath the blackening waves and
carried to the Colchian witch.
Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed
And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to
draw hiii chariot.
And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter
as he rode
Down the great granite-paven road between the
The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon
in their painted rhips :
The meanest cup that touched his lips wag
fashioned from a chrysolite.
The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich
apparel bound with cords :
His train was borne by Memphian lords : young
kings were glad to be his guests.
Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon's
altar day and night,
Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through
Ammon's carven house — and now
Foul snake and speckled adder with their young
ones crawl from stone to stone
For ruined is the house and prone the great
rose-marble monolith 1
Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches
in the mouldering gates :
Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the
fallen fluted drums.
And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced
ape of Horus sits
And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pUlars
of the peristyle.
iP'^HF- g(d is scattered here and there:
Jeep hidden in the windy sand
/ saw his giant granite hand still
clenched in impotent despair.
And many a wandering caravan of stately
Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the
neck that none can span.
And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his
To gaze upon the TiUn thews of him who was
O, seek his fragments on the moor and
wash them in the evening dew,
And from their pieces make anew thy
mutilated paramour !
Go, seek them where they lie alone and from
their broken pieces make
Thy bruised bedfellow ! And wake mad passions
in the senseless stone 1
Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns I he loved
your body 1 oh, be kind.
Pour spikjnard on his hair, and wind soft rolls
of linen round his limbs I
Wind round his head the figured coins 1 stain
with red fruits those pallid lips 1
Weave purple for his shrunken hips ! and purple
for his barren loins 1
^WAYtoE^pt! Have no fear. Only
one God has ever died
Only one God has let His side be
wounded by a soldier's spear.
But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by
the hundred-cubit gate
Across the empty land, and cries each yellow
morning unto thee. ^
And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his
black and oozy bed
"^"^nlh^ T'"*^ ^'" "°* ^P'^««* Ws waters
on the withermg com.
Your lovers are not dead, I know. They will
nse up and hear your voice
And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to
kiss your mouth 1 And so,
Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to
your ebon car 1
Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick
of dead divinities
Follow some roving lion's spoor across the
Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid
him be your paramour I
Couch by his side upon the grass and set your
white teeth in his throat
And when you hear his dying note lash your
long flanks of polished brass
And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber
sides are flecked with black.
And ride upon his gilded back in triumph
through the Theban gate.
And toy with him in amorous jests, and when
he turns, and snarls, and gnaws,
O smite him with your jasper claws ! and bruise
him with your agate breasts 1
■HYareyoutenying? Get hence I I
weary of your sullen ways,
Your pulse makes poisonous melodieo PnJ
black throat is like the h^ ' ' "'^ ^""^
t^JeTS^"''' "''"--« -"^ on Saracenic
See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled
towers, and the rain
Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs
with tears the wannish day.
What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with
uncouth gestures and unclean.
Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led
you to a student's cell ?
WHAT scngless tongueless ghost of sin
crept through the curtains of the
And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked,
and bade you enter in.
Are there not others more accursed, whiter with
leprosies than I ?
Are A'oana and Pharphar dry that you come
here to slake your thirst ?
Get hence, you loathsome mystery I Hideous
animal, get hence 1 "'"cous
You wake in me each bestial sense, you make
me what I would not be.
You make my creed a barren sham, you wake
toul dreams of sensual life.
And Atys with his blood-stained knife were
better than the thing I am.
False Sphinx! False Sphinx 1 By reedy Styx
old Charon, leaning on his oar,
Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave
me to my uucifix,
Whose pallid burden, sick *ith p^'n. watches
the world with wearied eyes,
And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps
for every soul in vain. *^
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
C. T. W.
""""" "~'" <" ™« "OVAt „„»„ o„,,„
""•^^ 7. 1896
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
HE did not wew his scarlet co»t.
For blood and wine are red
H hen they found him with the dead.
Ihe poor dead woman who.n he loved
And murdered in her bed.
He walked wiongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby gray ;
A cricket cap was on his ht'iid,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
80 wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky
wl''''^'"^ ^"^'""e '^'«"'J that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring.
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
' Thai fellow 's got to swing.'
Dear Christ ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel.
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel ;
And, though I was a soul in pain.
My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye ;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves.
By each let this be heard.
Some do it with a bitter look.
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss.
The brave man with a sword 1
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
Some kill their love when they are youn^
And some when they are old ^ *'
Some st-,ngle with the hands of Lust
Th.T'7'"' the hands of Gold . '
^'?.\'""'*«'^5»^«« knife, because
ihe dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too lon^
Some seU, and others buy ^'
Some do the deed with man; tears
And some without a si.rh •
For each man kills the thing he loves
Yet each man does not die.
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck.
Nor a cloth upon his face.
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.
' * ' •
He does not sit with silent men
M. ho watch him night and day •
"^i^/^t^h him when he tries tJ 'weep
And when he tries to pray; ^'
mo watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.
He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room.
The shivering Chaplain robed in white.
The Sheriff stem with gloom.
And the Governor all in shiny black.
With the yellow face of Doom.
He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and
Each new and nerve-twitched pose.
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.
He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door.
And binds one with three leathern thongs.
That the throat may thirst no more.
He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read.
Nor, while the terror of h: soul
Tells him he is not dead.
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass :
He does not pray with lips of clay
* or his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiap! as.
SIX wee' z our guardsman walked the yard.
In the suit of shabby grey :
His cricket cap was on his head.
And his step seemed light and gay.
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky.
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.
He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men ^vho dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair :
He only looked upon the sun.
And drank the morning air.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
He did not wring his hands nor weep.
Nor did he peek or pine. ^
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne •
W ;th open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine I
Who tramped the other ring
forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
ine man who had to swing.
And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
S>o wistfully at the day.
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.
For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
1 hat in the spring-time shoot :
But grim to see is the gallows-tree.
With Its adder-bitten root.
And green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit 1
The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try :
But who would sUnd in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high.
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky f
It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair :
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare :
But it is not s,weet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air I
So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day.
And wondered if each one of us'
Would end the self-same way.
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.
At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen.
And that never would I see his face
In God's sweet world again.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
Lik« two doomed ships th.t pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way •
But we made no sign, we said no word.
We had no word to say •
For we did not meet in the holy night.
But in the shameful day.
A prison wall was round us both,
I wo outcast men we were •
The world had thrust us from its heart.
And God from out His care :
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.
IN Debtors' Yard the stones are hard.
And the dripping wall is high.
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked.
For fear the man might die
Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day ;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And fhen he crouched to pray ;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.
The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act :
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact :
And twice a day the Chaplain called.
And left a little tract
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
And twice a day he smoked his pipe.
And drank his quart of beer :
His soul was resolute, and held
No hidinjr-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's hands were near.
But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask :
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips.
And make his face a mask.
Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console :
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole ?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul ?
With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade !
We did not care : we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade :
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.
We tore the Uny rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors.
And cleaned the shining rails :
And, rank by rank, we soaped the pUnk,
And clattered with the pails.
We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones.
We turned the dusty drill :
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns.
And sweated on the mill :
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.
So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave :
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and kr : 'e,
Till once, as we tramped in oni work,
We passed an open gravo.
With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing ;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring :
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swine.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death uid Dread and Doom :
The hangman, with his little bag.
Went shuffling throiiRh the gloom :
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tomb.
That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.
He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land.
The watchers watched him as he slept.
And could not undersUnd
'^w*'"* <=o"W sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand.
But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept :
So we— the fool, the fraud, the knave—
That endless vigil kept.
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept ^^
AUit it ii • fearful thing
To feel another's guilt I
For, right within, the nword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we (hed
For the blood we had not spilt
The Warders with their shoes of felt
Ciept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Grey figures on the floor.
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.
All through the night we knelt and prayed.
Mad mourners of a corse I
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.
The grey cock crew, the red cock crew.
But never came the day :
And crooked shapes of Terror crouched.
In the comers where we lay :
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
They glided past, they glided fast.
Like travellen. through > mist :
They mocked the moon in • rig" -n
Of dehcate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathwme grace
I he phantoms kept their tryst.
With mop and mow. we saw them go,
alim shadows hand in hand :
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband :
And the damned grotesques made arabesques.
Like the wind upon the sand I
With the pirouettes of marionettes.
They tripped on pointed tread :
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear.
As their grisly masque thev led
And loud they sang, and long they sanir.
For they sang to wake the dead.
' ^^''}^^y "-ied, • The world is wide.
But fettered limbs go lame !
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game.
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame.'
No things of air these antics were,
That frolicked with such glee :
To men whose lives were held in gyvei,
And whose feet might not go free.
Ah I wounds of Christ 1 they were living things.
Most terrible to see.
Around, around, they waltzed and wound ;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs ;
With the mincing step of a demirep
Some sidled up the stairs :
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer.
Each helped us at our prayers.
The morning wind began to moan.
But still the night went on :
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun :
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.
The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall :
Till like a wheel of turning steel
We felt the minutes crawl :
O moaning wind 1 what had we done
To have such a seneschal ?
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move nght across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
Go5-« r"'S",*r'"'^'"^''' -^ the world
Ood s dreadful dawn was red.
At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still.
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill, ^
h2' L'jrd of Death with icy breath
Wad entered m to kill.
He dia not pass in purple pomp,
Nor nde a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need :
So with rope of shame the Herald came
10 do the secret deed.
^n7«.?u'^"?" "^^^ *•"•«"«»» » fen
Ot falthy darkness grope :
We did not dare to breathe a prayer.
Or to give our anguish scope :
Something was dead in each of us.
And what was dead was Hope
For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside :
It slays the weak, it slays the strong.
It has a deadly stride :
With iron heel it slays the strong.
The monstrous parricide !
We waited for the stroke of eight :
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed.
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst
We had no other thing to do,
Sa-'e to wait for the sign to come :
So, like things of stone in a valley lone.
Quiet we sat and dumb :
But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
Like a madman on a drum I
With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair.
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From some leper in his lair.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam.
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
strangled mto a scream.
And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats
None knew so well as I :
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.
THERE is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man :
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick.
Or his feiic is fai- too wan.
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.
So they kept us close till nigh on noon.
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell.
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.
Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way.
For this man's face was white with fear.
And that man's face was grey.
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
VVe prisoners called the sky.
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.
But there were those amongst us aU
Who walked with downcast head
And knew that, had each got his due.
They should have died instead :
He had but killed a thing that lived.
Whilst they had kiUed the dead.
For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud.
And makes it bleed again.
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
And makes it bleed in vain I '
Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round.
The slippery asphalte yard ;
Silently we went round and round
And no man spoke a word.
Silently we went round and round.
And through each hollow mind
The Memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind.
And Horror stalked before each man.
And Terror crept behind.
The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span.
And they wore their Sunday suits.
But we knew the work they had been at.
By the quicklime on their booU
For where a grave had opened wide.
There was no grave at all :
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime.
That the man should have his pall.
For he has a pall, this wretched man.
Such as.few men can claim :
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame.
He lies, with fetters on each foot.
Wrapt in a sheet of flame 1
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
And aU the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night.
And the soft flesh by day,
It eats the flesh and bone by turns.
But it eats the heart alway.
Fot three Jong years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there :
^ «r'.!'.'*^ ^°"« y^'^ *•>« unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare.
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproaehful stare.
They think a murderer's heart would taint
Hjach simple seed they sow.
It is not true I God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know.
And the red rose would but blow more red.
ine white rose whiter blow.
Out of his mouth a red, red rose I
Out of his heart a white J
For who can say by what strange way.
Christ brings His will to light
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight ?
But neither n>ilk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison air ;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there :
For flowers have been known to hesl
A common man's despair.
So never will wine-red rose or white,
PeUl by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall.
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.
* > ■ .
• • •
Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round.
And a spirit may not walk by night
That is with fetters bound.
And a spirit may but weep that lies
In such unholy ground.
He is at peace — this wretched man
At peace, or wiU be soon :
There is no thing to make him mad.
Nor does Terror walk at no-n.
For the lampless Earth in r , he lies
Has neither Sun nor Mo» '
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
They hanged him as a beast is hanged •
They did not even toll
A requiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out.
And hid him in a hole.
They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies :
They mocked the swollen purple throat.
And the stark and staring eyes •
And with laughter loud they heaped the
In which their convict lies.
The Chaplain would not kneel to p«y
By his dishonoured grave :
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave.
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.
Yet all is well ; he has but passed
To hfe's appointed bourne :
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken um.
For his mourners will be outcast men.
And outcasts always mourn.
I KNOW not whether Laws be right.
Or whether Laws be wrong ;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong ;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.
But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chafl*
With a most evil fan.
This too I know — and wise it were
If each could know the same —
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
With bars they blur the gracious mora,
And blind the goodly sun :
And they do v sll to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon I
The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
Bloom well in prison-air ;
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there :
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate.
And the Warder is Despair.
For they sUrve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day :
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool.
And ^ibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad.
And none a word may say.
Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of livr g Death
Chokes up each grated screen.
And all, but Lust, b turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.
The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full ofchalk and lime.
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder figlit,
We have little care of prison fare.
For what chills and kills outrif 'it
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night
With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell.
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.
And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word :
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard :
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.
THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
And thus we rort Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone :
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan :
But God's eternal Laws are kind
Anfl break the heart of stone.
Ami every Iiumau lieart that breaks,
In f)iis'in-cfll <t yard.
Is as tli.if, iirokn. Lox that gave
Its vre.isuie to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
VVitl' the «cent of costliest nard.
Ah ! happy they whose hearts can brtal
And peace of pardon winl
How else may man make straifi t
And cleanse his soul from SIrt
How else but through a broken b,
May Lord Christ enter in T
And he of the swollen puq>le throat.
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the lioly hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.
The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three wedis of life.
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.
And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand.
The hand that held the steel :
For only blood can wipe out blood.
And only tears can heal ;
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal
THE BALLAD OF REi» "^ING GAOL
IN Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In a burning winding-sheet he lies.
And his grave has got no name.
And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie :
No need to waste the foolish tear.
Or heave the windy sigh :
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
And all men kill the thing they love.
By all let this be heard,
Some do it wi;.h a bitter look.
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword I